


Le Roman des Damnés

by Kroumios



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Kingdom Hearts (Video Games), Original Work, Yandere Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Domestic Violence, Horror, Original Character(s), Other, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28957584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroumios/pseuds/Kroumios
Summary: These are the tales of some who sinned. A very special soul has the privilege (?) to be the auditor of these sinister tales, where one sees the reasons for the damnation of those who deserve it most.
Kudos: 4





	1. The Maiden

**Author's Note:**

> The way I envisioned it, it is a collection of short stories with a frame. Some have references to each other - and a similar background - but they are mostly seperate from each other. The collection really starts upon the change of narrator. One Greek word also appears occasionally, in the original Greek writing.   
> And a final warning: This could be an unplesant reading, so proceed at your own discretion.   
> With that out of the way, bon voyage.

Darkness. Nothing but cold darkness. 

A world were fire and ice met, doing nothing to lighten her mind; where the occupants had deserved their stay, if her husband was to be believed. 

This had become the life of a maiden, who had found herself in this place under unusual circumstances. 

No matter which way one looked at it, she was undeserving of such a fate. And all she could do was suffer her tragedy in silence. 

It had been hard to keep her spirits up, despite his best attempts, but she held on. He was troublesome despite his suave appearance. But deep down she knew he would keep trying, over and over. 

This had become her new life, after this day. 

A day I shall tell you truthfully. True, us narrators have lost some of our superb lately: the Modernists, in their (justified for their time) bleak outlook on existence, have persisted in making us not quite reliable at best, or outright liars at worst. But I have made an oath to They who gave me my increased perception, and under this oath, I can _only_ say the truth, the sole, absolute truth. I shall then keep going, and keep my oath intact in telling the story of how she fell in her predicament. 

And, like any stories, it begins during a normal day, which in a single instant begets an irremediable change.


	2. Introductory chapter - The Devil's Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the new life

A day came, in Germany, when a handsome young man with hair blond and messy came to meet a peasant by his house on the bank of the river Rhine. The peasant was not mistaken: the young man was the Devil himself, hiding his skeletal wings with little success. The Devil knew immediately that the gig was up, so he tried not to hide the peasant his identity anymore. 

"Now you know who I am," the Devil said, his tone of voice menacing, "and you should know I came to take something from ye. What do you have to offer?"

The peasant remembered that, in the island of Ireland, a trickster by the name of Jack managed to fool the Devil. But rejected by both Heaven and Hell, Jack was now a wandering spirit. The peasant was certain his place in Heaven was secured, so he decided to try. 

"Very well! What is behind this door, I shall give you." he proudly declared. 

He came into the barn of his house from said door, hoping to find a mere apple tree. He was in shock to find not the tree, but his daughter knitting. 

So the peasant realized his mistake. And with the Devil following him inside, it was too late. 

"Such a beauty!" the Devil exclaimed. "This maiden is like no other! In one month's time, she will follow me... as my bride!"

"Your... bride?"

"How she will see the pains of the sinners! How she will regret her earthly life! It will be fantastic!"

The daughter listened attentively, not saying a word, for she was mute and no sound could leave her mouth. The reveal that marrying the prince of evil would make her soul just as much of a plaything as any damned hit her hard, and despair could be read over her face. 

"Say? I have a better idea than just giving her a wedding ring... Her pretty silver hair inspired me!"

And whenever the Devil is inspired, it announces great pains to come. That much was obvious when he took the peasant’s woodcutting axe. 

"What are you doing with the axe?!"

Not responding, the Devil took the maiden's hands, positioned them, stuck them in place, and swung the axe down. Her blood spread all over the room as the Devil cut her hands with the axe. With his labour done, the maiden began to cry in pain, but had no more hands to swipe her tears with. 

"Take this as a sign of our alliance." announced the Devil. In no time, he summoned hands made of pure silver which stuck to the bleeding stubs. With her brain giving signals, they began to move, just like her real hands would. 

"Now thou art my fiancée, pretty." the Devil gloated. "Remember: one month's time till thou art my bride. Spend your remaining time on earth... well."

He disappeared while laughing maniacally. The Devil's bride spent the rest of the day crying about her fate. All because her father thought he could trick the master of tricksters with no ill effects.

But the following day, she became resolute. She decided that she would spend her remaining month on earth with her family, helping them before she would be taken away from them. The father had great regrets, but knew that they could do nothing else. She assisted in labours other than knitting: she helped her father cut wood for winter, or worked in the fields with her brother. She played with the kids in the nearby village, trying to find one last moment of human warmth to remember. 

Then the month passed, and the Devil appeared in front of the house. He had come back to claim her. 

The father, in a single moment of defiance where he became hopeful again, tried to fight back and was immediately turned into a silver statue. The rest of the household stood back, mortified. 

“Now, my pretty?”

The maiden with silver hands had nothing more to do: her fate had been decided by her father’s cockiness, and twice he paid the price for it. She approached her new husband, and both left, out of everyone and everything’s sight.

No one saw her again, but a prince in passing, having had a vacation in the neighbouring nation of France, believed he saw a couple, with the woman having silver on her hands and tears in her eyes, disappear after walking into a burning flame. Yet they apparently did not burn, leaving no ashes behind. 

“This is curious,” he thought: “it happens the same day I find this silver statue in the Rhine… Am I really imagining the heartbeats I hear coming from this statue?”

*  
The maiden found herself in her new husband’s appartement in the Underworld. A cavern separate from every section where the Fallen would find himself when tormenting the souls of sinners for all eternity. 

The rest of the time, he was sitting in his throne, carved into an automaton of gargantuan proportions, stuck around the waist in a thick layer of ice that separated them from the cavern’s ground below. That lower part would sometimes fill with burning lava, engulfing the legs of the automaton – and every soul that found itself on the stalagmite invaded grounds when it happened would suffer the pain of burning in a furnace of thousands of degrees. And they would vanish, their consciousness ceasing to be. But it would be then that the Lord’s gift of eternal life became a blessing and a curse: no matter how many times a soul would cease to exist by being swallowed by the infernal lava, an earthly day would pass and they would appear yet again, unable to escape the eternal torment. 

This eternity would be unpleasant in another way for the Devil’s bride: the day she left her house on the bank on the River Rhine, the fire that engulfed her and her new husband to lead them to the world of the dead had only burned her clothing. As a mild compensation, as he put it, the Fallen had made her a new dress, entirely grey in colour and hiding her body down to her legs. Yet it did nothing to make the temperature of the cave more bearable to her physical body: the dress was the only article of clothing she had, and did not cover her arms. And it did only so much by covering her legs when she still walked on ice with her bare feet. 

*  
She decided to try and pass the time by exploring the areas of the underworld. From what she could gather, Hell could lead to any other afterlife for sinners – Heaven was out of reach still. 

But her first pass, Limbo, would remain her only grasp on the rest of the world of the dead. 

It appeared as a vast meadow surrounded by a forest extending as far as the eye could see. The notion of distance seemed vague: whenever one lost kid would try to reach the forest, they would appear to make no progress at all, as if the trees were fleeing from them. Limbo had no colours: in the image of the bride, the grass was grey in tone, and so was the sky; the lightless sun was pure white; the forest in the eternal distance, black. 

So far, the bride found nothing too unpleasant in Limbo. She was used to walking barefoot on grass, and the sensation on her soles was pleasant compared to the ice above lava of her new abode. 

The lost kids, who upon passing landed in Limbo, only appeared as living shadows. They were still tangible – the bride felt it when a lost boy ran by her – but no light reflected off them, leaving them to appear only as pure black silhouettes as if they were fully dipped in ink. 

The bride passed by a group of kids, visibly weeping. Just like herself, they emitted no sound, and she could only realise they were weeping by seeing one of them from his side: the ones visible from any other angle appeared as formless shapes similar to blots of ink on a sheet, and the arms and hands merged with the faces and torsos, impossible to make out from the rest of the body. 

She approached. They ceased their weeping, looked at her, cringed back. She realised they were afraid of her: a woman whose features could be distinguished and old enough to be a big sister, or even a mother to them, would indeed be suspicious in Limbo. She kneeled, patted the ground to signify “come here”, and one of the lost kids approached. 

She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. After a few seconds, she put the other hand on the other shoulder. The boy touched her stomach, and they held each other in a tight embrace. 

The other lost kids concluded the woman meant no harm, and approached her, and all of them grasped her in tight embrace. The bride smiled for the first time since becoming a bride, and started to laugh – air coming out of her nose – when a lost girl had seen her feet were exposed and started tickling them. 

Such a moment was short lived when a loud sound resounded within Limbo. 

“Tsk, tsk. What is this I am witnessing?”

The lost kids panicked and ran away. The smile on the bride’s face changed to an expression of worry when she recognized the sound of the voice. 

“Good, good, these kids do know their place – and that joy has none in here! As for you, _darling_ , I convoke you right now!” 

She felt something grabbing her ankle. She turned her eyes towards it: from the grass had appeared a root that surrounded her leg. She panicked and tried to hold on to the strands of grass of the meadow, but to no avail; the root pulled, pulled and yanked her into the earth. 

*  
The bride found herself at the back of the giant automaton. Her husband was holding her by the shoulders, keeping her back pushed into the automaton’s. The cave was burning hot, as the lava rose up to the level of the ice to correspond with the Devil’s anger. He scolded her: 

“What. Were you. Thinking?! I had told you so on the day of our wedding: we are in Hell! This is a place where no joy is to be felt! You are contradicting our very purpose with your displays of affection! Forget your human life, your instincts to help others, your empathy. Empathy does not belong in here!”

His eyes gazed into hers, and he strengthened his grasp on her shoulders. She winced in pain. He pursued: 

“Yes, this place is one where empathy does not belong. What is needed here is apathy. Or even hatred. Pure, unhinged hatred is what drives us! And before you start seeing us forces of Hell as monsters: the true monsters, in this place, are the ones that were directed to this place! We saw the balance of their sins, and we thought: monstrous human beings who didn’t need a single corrupting touch they attribute to me to become the plague of humankind! I give man a service by punishing the sinners, the worst of monsters who appal my person! I ensure they get the punishment they deserve, prevent them from being free of responsibility in death and rewarded with a Heaven they did not deserve! I service Thee still, hypocritical Father and Lord!”

The last mentions increased the temperature of the cavern, making vapor rise from the ice. The bride coughed. The Devil simply ignored it and resumed: 

“I believe you do not trust my words. Your kind has called me the Prince of Liars for no good reason. I am not the corrupter of mankind – their mind plagues itself. But you need examples to have faith in it? Very well. Let the narrator of our affairs leave this page, I shall take over him. I will tell you stories of the damned souls that fell in this place. Listen to them with attention, be repulsed by the low morals of such individuals; but do not put the blame on me for their fall. You shall understand, after my stories, that man has no reason to be a wolf to man other than his own nature; that well willed fantasies lead you to fall; that wishes of destruction land you here; that no one would wish to land themselves in this godforsaken place; that losing sight of what you wish will bring your fall; that you realise your errors way too late to make a meaningful change. 

“Listen carefully to the worst mankind has brought to itself. Listen to the novel of the damned.”

Le Roman des Damnés

Introductory chapter: “the Devil’s bride” 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sinners: 
> 
> I. Jack of the Lantern.  
> II. Bill the bully  
> III. Theodore Pluck  
> IV. Jack the Ripper  
> V. Agrippina  
> VI. Catherine Deshaye “La Voisin”  
> VII. The ant crusher.  
> VIII. The new Locusta.  
> IX. A. the Gadfly.  
> X. General Al-Dieaya.  
> XI. Kane.  
> XII. Ayano Aishi  
> XIII. Catherine Pluck  
> XIV. Manhunter  
> XV. Count Otto von Orlock


	3. Chapter the first - The wandering light of All Hallows’ Eve, Jack Of the Lantern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first "damned soul", a man who belongs in the legends of the Irish folklore.

Now, my pretty, what meaning to you give to the word “damned”?

It is true your kind mostly uses it for souls destined to join the deceased sinners into the cavernous complex of Hell, where they shall suffer an eternity of punishment at the hands of the angels who fell with me. 

Yet I am willing to extend the definition of damned souls for this one: we shall consider any deceased sinner a damned soul. For the protagonist of this tale, you shan’t find within this place. Yet he should have, for he deserves this appellation so very much. And you should put your trust in me for this tale, for I now the damned in question very well. 

I also found some delicious irony in this one: your father thought of him before he sealed your fate. But because of him, now I am like Jean de la Fontaine’s Sir Raven after the fox tricked him – a bit too late, I swore the rogue would never cheat me more. 

But enough introduction, I shall now proceed to tell the tale of Jack of the Lantern. 

*  
No one knows any other name to Jack. He was a normal person, living in the most Catholic island of Ireland. Jack was familiar with its grey skies that yet did not necessarily herald rainy days, and the verdant hillsides resulting of when the rainy days did come. But most of all, Jack was familiar with its taverns. 

When this tale that sealed his fate happened, Jack had been banished from his house, following an argument where, under the effects of his favoured liquor of beer, he had turned violent against the family he was so attached to. One day’s wandering, two, then three, he found himself in the town of Dublin – where coincidentally, I, the Light Bringer, was visiting under anonymity, in order to judge the Dubliners and see which of them I would meet again. 

The two of us sat at a tavern in Dublin – me, to judge who would seal their fate under the influence of alcohol; he, to simply, as he put it, “piss the night away and get wasted”. 

My disguise was flawless: in this present moment, I seemed perfectly to be one of his, their, your kind. I sat at the bar, despite me not wanting to fall under the magical liquid’s influence, and Jack came to me, expecting probably a “drinking buddy”. 

I politely refused. “For in Heaven, the consumption of alcohol is looked down upon.”

“Figured as much – they’re high up, so they must look down upon anything” he joked. 

“I am being serious, my friend. The drunkards are refused the traversing of the gates of Paradise. I know, for I am an angel.”

“Come on, buddy, who are ya really! You’re pretty, for sure, but to call yourself an angel!” he replied. 

“I am very serious” I retorted, “I am an angel; or at the very least, I used to be one.”

“Stop kiddin’! You, a _fallen_ angel, here in Dublin!”

“I can prove the veracity of my words, if thou art still not convinced” I kept insisting: “I can give you a favour to demonstrate.”

Jack seemed to ponder it. Then he declared: 

“Aw well, might as well try! If you could help me get my load o’ beer, I’d be glad. But can ya do it by turning into enough pence for a mug? You takin’ it from a purse wouldn’t prove anything, ya get me?”

I was foolish to respond with “Certainly. Observe.” For when I changed my shape into a six pence coin to help the drunkard pay for his liquor, this cunning fox took me and slid me into his purse. It would not have been too bad, if it weren’t for the fact that it contained one of my weaknesses of the time: a silver crucifix. So I was stuck with the form of a six pence coin, in great pain, because I let myself be fooled by an alcoholic. 

I could still hear the sounds from outside of the purse. Jack was bragging about his trick. “See that, guys? The Devil’s in my purse now! He’s stuck!” he proudly claimed. And the voices of the tenant and clients all joined together in chanting “Hooray for Jack! Hooray!”. Then he pulled a six pence coin – one other than the one I was! – and used it to pay for his sips! This was enough to draw my ire. 

The night passed and Jack had left the tavern when he opened his purse again. Unable to stand after the free beers that followed the ones he paid for, he luckily dropped me out of my prison. I then took my normal appearance again, exposing the expense of my rage to him. 

“ _YOU!_ JACK THE DRUNKARD! You felonious trickster! Now, you have done it! From this moment on, thou art a damned soul! Your soul shall never reach Heaven! I am looking forward to seeing you in Hell – I will have special torments prepared just for thee.”

Then I disappeared. It would be two years before I met Jack again, on the Eve of All Saint’s day. 

*  
I had begun a tour of Ireland again, in order to gage which of the Irish would join my domain – in the meantime, many of the participants in that infamous night had come to my place. By the time I saw Jack again, he was working small job after small job, living by the nickel and wasting most of his earnings in taverns. 

He jostled me for our reunion. “Hey, you! Watch where you’re…” he began, before he recognized me. “Oh! Um… heya… Lucy?”

“We are not friends; nicknames are out of place.” I told him. 

“You said you were you were looking forward to seeing me again!”

“This was so I could inflict a punishment on you for your trickery!” I angrily replied. “In fact… I might make you a favour and tone down the punishments if you were to follow me right now.”

“Come on man! I still got so much to live for!” he responded. 

“Is your goal in life to visit every tavern in Ireland to – ahem – piss the night away and get wasted? Your own life is worthless, Jack! You are nothing more than a drunkard and a felon! There is no way you will meet your beloved again in Heaven; an eternity with me is what awaits you!”

My revelations – I admit, more akin to a scolding – had him look depressed. He said after that: 

“Alright, might as well not keep you waiting, old pal.” Before I could scold him again that we were not friends, he added: “Though can you please do me a favour and pick the apple on that tree? I do want a last snack for the ride…”

I accepted, reluctantly. He brought me to the apple tree where there was a single apple, dangling from a high branch. He let me climb on his shoulders, and I got on the tree branches ready to take the fruit. 

This was the second and last time I made a foolish mistake in the presence of Jack. When I was in position on the tree branch, he immediately pulled out from his pocket a knife, and from his other, a cross – the very same accursed cross he used to imprison me in his purse. Using the knife like a nail, he attached the cross to the tree like a painting to a wall. After the fact, I was starting to feel the blood in my veins boil. First literally: the pain I felt from this cross took the form of an unbearable burning sensation coursing through me. Imagine the lava from my abode, hot enough to burn down souls into temporary nonbeing: the pain is comparable to what this lava provides. Then figuratively: my anger towards Jack, the same I felt two years prior after leaving the tavern, came back tenfold, taking the form of an uncontrollable rage. 

“JACK! YOU SWINE! HOW DARE YOU FOOL ME AGAIN!”

My display of rage did nothing to sway him. Instead, an unbearably complacent smile was plastered on his face. 

“Well, buddy, it’s yer fault if you got there. You know what we say: “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”. Blame’s on you, buddy.” He said, proud of himself. 

“GET ME OUT OF HERE OR I’LL CRUSH YOU!”

“Um…” he pondered. “Fine, I’ll let you go, buddy. But on one condition…”

“WHAT?!”

“That when I do die, I won’t go to Hell. We got a deal?”

“YOU HAVE A DEAL! NOW LET ME GO!”

He complied. The smile not gone from his face, he pulled out the knife and took the cross back into his purse. The pain began to soothe, and I am afraid I let him hear a content sigh coming from my mouth. Jack eventually helped me down, and we reaffirmed again my part of the deal. 

But another expression came to my mind as I left, with the complacent smile on my face this time: be careful what you wish for…

*  
It was another ten years before Jack passed away. Down on his luck and penniless, Jack had decided to enrol in the military and fight against the most Anglican island of Great Britain. A loose bullet cost him his life, and made him realise the mistake in his trickery. 

My warning twelve years ago was not wasted air, as Jack found out. Access to Heaven was refused to him, with the reason being spending a life of alcoholism and trickery. 

And we met again in my throne room, this very throne room, with his fate between my hands. 

“Remember our bargain, Jack?” I reminded him. “I wouldn’t let you in Hell because you saved me from your trick.”

“Oh God.”

“Oh God indeed! Where will you go now, I wonder?”

Wonder I really did not, but wander he did. Nowadays, Jack the trickster is a wandering spirit, walking the earth in errand and in wait for the Day of Reckoning. 

But I assisted him one last time. I gave him a big turnip, which he carved into a lantern to guide himself for the remainder of Time. 

He was the original will of the wisps: other spirits followed his example, but couldn’t keep their fire burning for long, due to their lack of a lantern. 

And it is for that reason that, on the Eve of All Saints’ Day, the Irish people carve radish to make lanterns on their porch. 

But it truly was me who got the last laugh in this story. Justice was done for me, and I became more careful around tricksters. 

I also no longer fear silver crosses. Or the metal in general. After, what are your hands made off, my pretty?

Hee-hee… Are you convinced yet? No? Then I shall prove to you that no one is safe from sin. Even the children you played with, against my orders…

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter the first: The wandering light of All Hallows’ Eve, Jack Of the Lantern  
END


	4. Chapter II - Disproving the myth of childhood innocence: Bill the Bully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second damned soul, a kid across the sea from Jack of the Lantern

I will now disprove for you one of the misconceptions that has defined your entire being, my fair lady: no, children are not perfectly innocent. Sin is part of the nature of your kind, and is baking within every soul from the moment of a man’s birth: therefore, it is only natural that children can and will become sinners later in their life. _Quod erat demonstratum._

I might also add: I dedicate Limbo to the poor unfortunate souls who find their life cut short before they could be decided worthy of salvation. And the protagonist of this story took part in this little group hug you began. 

We will see how much you keep you empathy after this piece is over, now, pretty?

*  
Bill, at age five, had decided to play in the fields of farmer Soto in the hills of the Highlands. 

And his idea of playing consisted of bleeding the cattle. He had stolen his father’s razor and used it on the cows’ legs. 

He repeated this game of faux medical attention until he was found on his sixth birthday. Farmer Soto had caught him in the act, and brought him back to his parents, who gave him a well-deserved scolding. 

But this would be only the first time Bill would find pleasure in harming others. And unbeknownst to the entire family, the young torturer included, it was also at this age that Bill claimed his first life. 

Indeed, despite his son’s misuse of his tool, Bill’s father had kept using the razor to shave himself. But alas, this story happened before the times where the world of the infinitely small, the bacteria and viruses, so miniscule yet capable of taking down human beings like the fortress for cells they truly are, had not yet been discovered. And one day, the father cut himself while shaving his beard. Such a tiny mistake with great consequences! As the bacteria that inhabited the cattle took the opportunity and invaded his body through the opening. Days later, he found himself very sick, and a few days after Bill was found guilty of attacking the cattle, the invasion of the body was complete – Bill’s father died at the tender age of thirty-two. The entire family attended the funeral, and Bill was crying also, unaware that he had caused his father’s demise. The day after the funeral, though, he would guilt no longer for the life of others. 

*  
At age seven, Bill had found a new target for his torments. 

That target was a shepherd girl wandering the hills of the Highlands. She was well liked where she came: wherever her _klompen_ took her, the little girl originating from Clogher would gather some of the sheared wool from her herd of sheep and gift it to the villagers. She fed herself from the fruits she found on the way, but would also accept invitations from the inhabitants of the area, and all would agree she was a sweet girl anyone would have wished to have as a daughter. 

Bill, on the other hand, despised the foreigner. He had hoped to become the centre of attention for his village when he had started playing with the cows, after feeling ignored for the first half of his existence. Although he had become famous – as he put it, deliberately missing the in- prefix that should have gone with it – after this affair, the shepherd girl stole this attention from him, and he became ignored again. For the villagers, it was all fair – they felt deserving of such a girl’s generosity. For Bill, this was too much to bear. 

So much to bear, as a matter of fact, that one day, under the pretence of establishing a friendship with the kind soul, he took her for a walk in the forest. He presented himself as a polite kid, truly wishing to make the most out of her visit. 

Little did the girl know that he had made an escapade to an ambulant entertainer’s caravan and played around with the animal cages. 

He presented it as a coincidence when the two of them came across a brown bear cub. The little girl asked if she could play with it, and Bill assured her it was safe. 

But the mothers were nearby, and the bear mother saw the little shepherd girl playing with her cub. She thought the girl was actively harming the cub and jumped at her, ready to defend her baby from an inexistant menace. 

But to save the kids from the real threat, the other mother ran in – Bill’s. She grabbed the kids, a calm Bill and a screaming shepherd girl, and ran with them. But she tripped on a root, slowing everyone down. 

“RUN AWAY!” she screamed, and the kids complied. 

They escaped the forest and informed the village. But when the villagers arrived at the spot of the attack, they found no bear – but a torn-apart corpse. For the second time in his life, Bill had been responsible for someone’s untimely demise. This time, however, although the target was different, the claiming of a life was fully intended. 

The original target tried to comfort Bill, mistaking his little laughs for cries, but the assassin, facing the display of empathy from the missed mark, promptly _snapped_ at her. He was enraged, insulting her on her Irish roots, calling her an idiot, blaming her for the death of his mother – a blame that was really all on him. The shepherd girl began to sob and run away, losing a _klomp_ in the process, which Bill took and threw at her. 

The next day, she left after the villagers consoled her. She kept going with her life of generosity, while Bill was put in an orphanage in Aberdeen, far away from his village of birth. 

*

Bill spent the three remaining years of his life in the orphanage. The tenants found him to be a model young boy. 

In reality, Bill had gotten better at hiding his abuse. Whenever any boy crossed his path, they simply resigned themselves to more torment. The boys had gotten used to Bill putting nails in their bed, Bill calling them names, Bill pouring water on their sheets as if they wet their bed, among less innocent games like Bill pushing them into the stairs. 

His favourite target was a little African boy whose parents had escaped slavery. He had been taken into custody by the orphanage as an infant after his parents perished – it happened not a long time after they arrived in Scotland –, and the tenants had raised him as their own child, with an open mindedness unseen in such times. 

But Bill did not approve of this. Behind everyone’s back, he gave the kid the name of Sambo, the sobriquet of “talk-ink kid”, and gave him frequent black eyes. But the little kid was pressured into not revealing the identity of his tormentor – a common strategy of Bill to escape punishment. 

It would be after three years of staying at the orphanage, when the director decided to let the kids visit the countryside, that Fortune would catch up to him. 

They were walking close to the cliffside facing the North Sea, the organizers telling them to be extremely cautious of their footing. It was one of those days Scotland shared with Ireland – a grey sky that did not release any rain to pour on the men and women. A sight any Scot would claim to be underappreciated – as a people who do not fear the rain, its absence is nevertheless pleasant for them. 

The African kid was approaching the cliffside, with great care as to not slip and fall. Bill, on the other hand, threw all caution out of the window and ran toward “Sambo” in an attempt to push him off. 

There was a body to fall that day, but not the one Bill meant for. And the reason for this change was a single misstep. 

In his hurry, Bill had slipped and missed his victim. The grass, still damp with the morning dew of Aprille, carried his body where no ground was and, in an ironic twist of fate, Bill’s very own life would be the last one he claimed on an accident, and kept the pattern of the deaths being in his own family. 

Down by the beach was a poet, who had gone up in Scotland to find his Muse. Since his arrival, he had shared the locals’ vision of the grey sky as a secret beauty of nature. He plunged his pen into his ink pot disposed on a rock to keep writing his verse just before Bill landed on it face first and died on impact. The poet, scared by the event, felt drowsy and fainted, next to the body of Bill the bully, face caved in by the rock’s impact and the ink mixing with his flowing out blood. 

*  
Thus ended the story of Bill the bully. A bad egg who tormented others for petty reasons, and ended up ending his own bloodline through no will of his own. 

Did you truly believe until then that children would be spared by sin? Bloodlust can come in very early in a human’s lifetime, and direct them to the worst of the sins. 

I find it fitting that in his last moment, his face landed on ink. A fitting fate for the one who insulted the “talk-ink kid”, do you think not? And his current form as a featureless, pure black shadow in the Limbos is all the more fitting! 

I believe you are still trying to find excuses for this brat’s behaviour, but he truly had none other than pettiness. His parents loved him unconditionally, and he wound up their killer. Could you truly forgive that? 

I do not believe so. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter II: Disproving the myth of childhood innocence: Bill the Bully.  
END


	5. Chapter III - The carnal story of the Pluck family part 1, Theodore Pluck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third sinner, a father only normal in appearance.

You loved your father, didn’t you? And your feelings remained unchanged even though he sentenced you?

Your dedication is very touching. Something that would be admirable on the surface world. 

But you were just lucky to have a father that was not a sinner. The concept of the sins of our fathers is very much true, I am afraid. But it takes a different form than just justice being passed on the kids for the parent’s fault – it is _my_ function to bring justice to the sinners. 

In reality, once sin manifests itself in a family member, it is too late for the children’s salvation. They learn through imitation, taking their parent as a model, in any age they wound themselves in. And Theodore Pluck would be the first to bring infamy to his own family. 

Though, a fair word of warning: you might not find yourself disgusted by the events of the story. In truth, they might even arouse you! Some unexplainable phenomenon on my part, I am afraid, but we shall proceed. Nevertheless, commit to your mind that this tale is meant to be gross, and in no way erotic. 

*  
The man in question is a certain Theodore Pluck, an average man with an average life. Where he lives, he serves as a librarian for his community, eager to please anyone’s thirst for knowledge and culture. 

He lived in a small town, with his wife and daughters. These were lovely girls. A beautiful wife and beautiful daughters who attracted every boy’s looks in the playgrounds. 

He was also a very liberal parent, leaving his kids in freedom whenever they liked. As such, it is barely surprising one of his daughters wound up using the charms of Aphrodite at an early age – not one too young to be considered problematic, rest assured. In fact, there was only one point on which he was authoritarian. And, you might find it odd, it was women’s footwear. 

Indeed, he would not let any woman in his house wear shoes. Or socks, for that matter. It was something of a fetish for him: he loved women’s bare feet, and spent a lot of time with his wife simply caressing them. But this rule did not simply extend to his wife: their daughters too, Madeleine and Catherine, would walk barefoot anywhere, even in public. No women’s shoes in the household, period. The sensual aspect was only present with his wife’s, though: there was no Oedipus in the Pluck family, and they functioned as a normal family despite this odd rule. None of the women even seemed bothered by it. 

But the question of sensuality would eventually bring an end to the structure and reveal some dark desires within Theodore Pluck, when he acted abnormally in an unusual circumstance. 

Now, my fair lady, this is where the part of disgust and lust begins. And the motivator behind his actions was lust, although it should cause disgust for thee…

*  
One night, Mr. Pluck found his wife dead, stabbed through the heart six or nine times, when he went back home from his work as a librarian. But, not panicking, he approached her corpse, caressed her bare feet which he worshipped so much in bed, before getting closer and closer to her face. He gazed at her left eye, one he found so beautiful when they first met in high school. Now that it was perpetually open, never to be closed again by her own volition, he analysed it more closely.

It was a different colour from her right eye, which was green while the left was brown. It was a glassy eye, with an iris shrunk. It was a little crazy eye, which was one of his weaknesses. In fact, he loved eyes very, very much. It was a treasure he sought to behold for the rest of his existence, even beyond her grave. 

So, instead of running off to call the police, he plunged his hand into the eye socket and gouged out the precious eye. To achieve symmetry, he plucked out the other eye too, but uninterested in keeping it and hungry after a long day of work, he put it in his mouth, and swallowed it. The rest of the body was brought into a cold room, kept for conservation. As indeed, he found the eye to be tasty. In fact, he had kept out the thoughts of merely eating his wife at one point: whether by swallowing her whole, in the way of Tarrare, or piece by piece like a chicken, she would have ended in his stomach eventually. She never knew his voracious tendencies, and would never learn. 

As such, for dinner, he had her livers and heart. She kept him fed for an entire week, and her disappearance was never solved.  


For humans, at the very least. I do know who the culprit was. In fact, he is one of the protagonists of the upcoming stories. But everything must come in its time, and we have to keep going with the carnal story of Theodore Pluck, because the part of most disgust is about to come. 

*  
One day, Madeleine, one of the two daughters Mr. Pluck had with his wife, went back home, with shoes she bought after outgrowing her barefoot lifestyle. 

And then began something so grotesque, so unreal, that the laws of physics that dictate the workings of the world of humans would have made this very event impossible. But there is no trickery on my part, and the event did happen as I am about to tell. 

But as soon as Madeleine arrived in the house, shoes on her feet, he unhinged his jaw and swallowed her whole like a snake, leaving her to be digested alive. 

A most pitiful fate that some find arousing. Her cries for help were in vain, and Madeleine Pluck suffocated in her own father’s stomach before his enzymes reduced her body to liquid. Theodore Pluck was surprised by the strength of his stomach acids, and he decided to feed himself with women for the rest of his life. 

A short rest of his live, as it was. He died two years later when the other daughter Catherine, suspicious of his appetite, let herself be eaten with a knife hidden on her person and got out by tearing his stomach open from the inside. He slowly died, while his daughter revelled in her victory. But his last words were "you can eat my eye"... and she complied. And she found it delicious. Then she unshod herself, starting to eat another eye…

*  
This is where the story ends for now. Though the inheritable nature of sin has become very apparent to you, has it not?

I wonder how you felt towards the grotesque events I described. Disgusted? Or not? Are you one of those who find this prospect of being swallowed alive to be an enticing one, my pretty?

Well, I shall leave this matter for the time being. There will be more to come when the time for the next story in this little saga, if you will, returns. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter III: The carnal story of the Pluck family part 1, Theodore Pluck  
END


	6. Chapter IV - The cloaked εἴδωλον of Whitechapel, Jack the Ripper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth sinner, a shadow looming over London, known even to this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> εἴδωλον: Ancient Greek for ghost, or sham.   
> Auctoritas: Latin for given power or authority.   
> Aurum: Latin for gold.

I see you have been confused by my previous story. Some of the expressions I used are out of place for you? Confusing you? 

Well, my fair lady, this is because this story had not come to me from times long gone. When it happens, the time where you lived will have been long gone. 

I have indeed been gifted with the power of foresight. I know the stories of future sinners, and can prepare in advance for when they fall to this place! 

If they do, however. As indeed, if you were wondering why I would wander the earth to judge the sinners if I could simply trust in my foresight, such a power does not a transfixed future imply: I can only see a possible future through it, and it becomes malleable to the point they can be prevented. 

But this is enough explanation for such a power; now you know that I can, and you should simply not wonder too much about it. My eyes are telling me a new story from times to come, though this one happens sooner than the previous one. 

*  
Whitechapel is one infamous borough of London when this story happens. It is a place where charm sellers offer their body for a measly sum so they can survive. A place where criminals of all kind wander the night for some loot. A place of dirt and filth in the hygiene of its inhabitants as well as their morals. 

A big stain on the face of the city which was, at this time, the most powerful in the world. And ruler of an Empire where the sun does not set. 

A stain where filth would increase in a case that would remain in infamy for times to come. A proof, if you will, my pretty, of the impact of sin. People are shocked, _outraged_ whenever something like this happens, yet it is something that grows ever bigger when unchecked… 

*

One night, a prostitute by the name of Mary Jane Kelly was found murdered in her apartments. 

The scene of the crime was most gruesome: yet I will not provide you with too much detail – be thankful that I am lenient, as only the previous tale had the explicit purpose of provoking disgust. But in the bedroom of the whore was her dead body, the throat slit to the point the cut reached the spinal cord, and the heart was removed, and the stomach open with the rest of the body mutilated. 

The police force was still dumbfounded. As if, once again, a shadow had fled from their grasp. As they had suspected that this murder was committed by one calling himself Jack the Ripper. He managed to lift the borough of Whitechapel from obscurity and into a global and sempiternal reputation of infamy by being one of the earliest to popularize a concept that would come to be known as “serial killer”. 

Mary Jane Kelly was only the last of his victims. At least four more had previously fallen into his grasp. And all of them shared the fate of being made into butchered corpses – except from the third one, Elizabeth Stride or “Long Liz”, who suffered the least butchering. And this is the least, as some declare he has more victims under his belt. 

From the point of view of any evil person, the person of Jack would have been quite the jester, as indeed, many letters came to the police of London, many signed by the nickname that would follow this cloaked figure – Jack the Ripper. And these writings present him as a provocative person, daring to call the authorities by familiar nicknames like “Boss”, or revendicating his parentage of evil by claiming to have written from this very place, “From Hell”. The boldness is admirable, I say. The revendication, not so. 

In fact, let me quote for you the entirety of one of such letters. It should give you an idea of Jack’s character. The text was written in red, an image that should be evocating even to you:

> “Dear Boss,  
>  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladies’ ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly  
>  Jack the Ripper  
>  Don’t mind me giving the trade name  
>  PS Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha”  
> 

A twisted jester, for certain. Laughing at the police through the post is his game.

*  
Now you yourself are probably jumping in on the questions. Who was Jack? How did he do it?

Many have pointed fingers in a desperate bid to answer this question, to which only I know the answer. Jack will find his comeuppance in this place, rest assured. But although the answer is a part of my knowledge, I shall entertain myself for the time being by not revealing it. But you should now know what people have hypothesized about this shadow. 

Is he possibly one of the poor men of Whitechapel? I have said before this was a place of filth, that much is certain. And this one would have gained a posterity by his staging talents. 

Or maybe a royal? They have the power of their _auctoritas_ and their _aurum_ to leave their responsibility in the air, should you ask the poor. Their reputation is also of great value, leaving many to wonder if their prim and proper appearance is only an εἴδωλον and what they truly are in the dark. 

But many also have a far more… let’s say, nihilistic view. They see no point in trying anybody for crimes that would never be solved in the criminal’s lifetime, and that behind all of the panache of their presentation, Jack was no person, but merely a ghost. This borough of Whitechapel, in their point of view, was already embed too deep in all of its filth, and the press and police only gave it a name and appearance as to bring attention to the place. 

This lie, although sinful in itself, would be brilliant if it were, and the people seeing through it would be showing cleverness for not falling for it. Yet I might make an addendum to correct this statement. If they were right, then it would be erroneous to say Jack the Ripper never existed. 

Because behind the εἴδωλον which Jack would be would have hidden a larger demon than a mere criminal. Jack would not then be one man – he would be many. Jack the Ripper did indeed exist no matter the point of view you take. But in this last one, the name “Jack the Ripper” becomes a general name for all the actors of the case. 

And all of them reflect the filth of Whitechapel. 

The prostitutes, all ready to give their dignity to survive. 

The criminals of Whitechapel, already sinners of the worst kind, combined into one and sharing under one string of letter the blame for lives lost. 

The authors of the letter, lying for fame, laying the bricks for a myth of sin and lies. 

The press, abandoning their motto of truth and spreading awareness of a mist of lies. 

They are all Jack the Ripper, a figure of collective sin cutting the prime and proper revendications of the United Kingdom. 

*

You should then realise, sweetheart, that although I fully acknowledge the possibility of lies in this story, it barely matters, for the lie is not mine. 

Jack is very practical for me, as he allows me to talk about how sin can be not of a single person, but shared between a large group of many individuals who make a mask to keep the blame away from them. But when the persona takes the blame, so do they, and none escape my righteous wrath. 

But that is only, of course, if Jack were this εἴδωλον who scapegoats the filth of many. Jack could have been, as they claim, a single person seeking Hell. None beyond this realm shall ever know. Because I am aware, but become a keeper of secrets. 

And only I shall, when the time comes, bring Jack to take the charge of his responsibilities. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter IV: The cloaked εἴδωλον of Whitechapel, Jack the Ripper  
END


	7. Chapter V - Agrippina, a black widow for the princeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth sinner, the embodiment of the instability of the early Roman empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Princeps: the title given to Augustus as he took power over the Roman Republic, making him the "first citizen" of Rome.   
> Oratores: Latin for orator, in the Nominative plural.   
> Imperator: title given to the generals returning victorious from their campaigns. The Emperors were called "Caesar".   
> Vulnerant omnes ultima necat: A sentence that is part of the Memento Mori aesthetic - it is present on some sun dials, as in Urrugne, France.

How come you still doubt me after the story of Jack the Ripper? Was it a mistake to keep the mystery surrounding him? 

Is it because for you, it has yet to happen? You would think I would make stories up? Do you truly believe that the future is fictional? I acknowledge that it is not set in stone, but I cannot prevent Jack’s story from ever happening. Jack is not my εἴδωλον, he is the one for all the vice in Whitechapel, for collective sin. 

Oh, I believe I realise my mistake now. The fact that the sin is shared makes you doubt it would be plausible? You would put more faith in me if the story is of one sinner only, and set in the past? 

Very well then, I have the perfect candidate for you. Do you not feel like a feminine presence has been severely lacking in these stories? It is time to compensate this lack. And who is better suited for this that Agrippina the Young? 

*  
It was, like thee, near the bank of the river Rhine that Julia Agrippina was born, daughter of general Germanicus Julius Caesar and Agrippina the Elder. At the time of her birth, the city of Rome, unbeknownst to its inhabitants, and left their treasured Republic behind and given place to an Empire. 

How come the change was unnoticed? You see, Octavius, who had founded the Empire, had kept the institutions of the Republic standing, yet devoid of any power. And no one batted an eye at the fact that this would still bring them into a monarchy, a kind of regime so despised, politicians could accuse their opponent of royalism or of wanting to claim a title of king to discredit them. 

This man, who had renamed himself as Augustus, died the same year she was born, and the same year Tiberius came to power. And this Tiberius was none other than her great-uncle. 

The gloomiest of men, he was called by Pliny the Elder. And with some reason: despite being a great general, he was a dark emperor, reclusive and sombre. Ever worsening his mood was the death of his son, who passed suddenly. 

It would be of no surprise that such a man would leave the Empire in trouble. The followers of the Judaic code of law had increased in number, and conflict there was with the citizens of Rome. The followers of Christus also joined in the foray. 

And this name repulses me. Why would he be the saviour of mankind when he is the son of the Great Hypocrite who is in Heaven? But I shall not dwell on that part.   
Tiberius eventually removed himself from Rome and left the power in the hands of most unscrupulous men. They were part of the Praetorian guard and of his entourage. 

A few years earlier, Agrippina had married a certain Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, her parental cousin first removed and who came from a wealthy family of consular rank. But he was a most detestable man, living in the sin of dishonesty. 

Then it was no surprise that she would grow up the way she was. Things would worsen for the Empire once her brother Caligula came to be the Emperor. 

*  
Caligula was Agrippina’s only surviving brother. And the reputation he left behind is one of infamy. 

But for Agrippina and her sisters, he was quite kind. He gave them the rights of the Vestal Virgins like watching the public games from the upper ranks of the Coliseum – and this rose the sisters to ranks closer to demigods: need I remind you that the mother of Rome’s founders was a Vestal Virgin herself? – or being immortalized by the Empire’s currency, on the flipside of coins, whereas the emperor himself had his face on the other side. Truly, he was close to his sisters. 

But to Julia Drusilla especially. Many suspected he practiced incest with his sisters, but Julia Drusilla was the most obvious object of his lecherous affect. When one considers that he swore he would treat her like his own wife when she was married already, one can only be repulsed, and so am I. Then she died, and Caligula truly went down the deep end. He became more violent than ever, and believed a horse would be of use in the Senate. 

During this reign of insanity, Agrippina gave birth to her only son, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, who is more famous under the name of Nero. And once again, the reputation of this name should surpass him, and it should already be known that the chaos of the family would not spare this child. 

But Agrippina did try to do good during this period. Like any righteous judge of the surface world, I do not forgive murder, but I know when I see an understandable motive. And Agrippina did have one during this period: she, Drusilla’s widower Lepidus and her sister Livilla took part in the plot of the three daggers to end Caligula’s reign in one of the most radical means – you understand that this mean is taking the Emperor’s life. 

But the Emperor found out and convicted them. The letters used to convict them were faked by Caligula’s hands, but their intentions were real. Lepidus was executed and the sisters exiled to the Pontine Islands. Agrippina lost her husband during that exile. 

It lasted only until their beloved brother was assassinated by someone else, along with his wife and daughter of only one year of age. Then her uncle Claudius, who hid behind curtains like a coward, took the role of Emperor. And thus came the period when Agrippina became sinful, when she would play a huge part in the story of her infamous son Nero. 

*  
Claudius did not appear to be prestigious when seen through the scope of outer appearance: not only did he hide when the attempt on Caligula’s life was happening, he also had a terrible stutter, which to any Roman would be detrimental when the _oratores_ are the ones to prosper. He was also partially deaf and lame from illness in his youth, which overall gave him the appearance of a frail man. Yet behind the appearances, Claudius was not lame in the other sense of the term: passioned by law and an efficient administrator, I will avoid the bias of the authors of the time and reveal that his gestion of the Empire’s finances managed to erase the effects of the reign of his insane predecessor and began a military campaign on the isle of Britain, which would eventually prove to be successful – making him worthy of the title of _imperator_. 

Yet, besides the authors, another person was discontent with Claudius’ presence on the throne. And you may have realised that this person was his very niece Agrippina. It appears that obsession is a defining part of her family, as after being a victim of it herself, she became its perpetrator. Agrippina was very fond of her son – renewing the accusations of an Oedipus for her – and only saw him as worthy of the imperial rank. 

As a babe, the son was to be the victim of an assassination attempt by thugs sent by Messalina, Claudius’ ever conspiring wife. But the to-be assassins left after they saw a snake under the infant’s pillow, which they – rightfully so – considered a bad omen. Agrippina knew of it – she herself had the _skin_ of a snake put in the crib to scare away the would-be murderers. She then had the skin made into a bracelet for her beloved son. 

Messalina’s conspirations were eventually found out, and she was rewarded as a traitor deserved – with eternal life. After which Agrippina married her uncle; the theories of incest only gained more credibility after this act. But the skin of the snake in the crib might as well have been hers, for Agrippina – you definitely have realised by now – married him to put her son on the throne. On her orders, her rival was charged with black magic, exiled and made to commit suicide. 

She eventually had Claudius accept Lucius her son as co-heir to the Empire with Claudius’ son Britannicus. Yet he eventually disappeared, leaving only Lucius as the heir. 

And the clock started ticking. The Latins had a saying, upon their Christianisation, exposed on their sundials: _vulnerant omnes ultima necat_ – all hurt, the last kills. All being the hours, and Claudius’ last would come. 

*  
It happened during a banquet, one such as the Romans loved to practice. 

Locusta the famous poisoner was involved with the scheme. She is not an object of our interest, however, although one who has her as her namesake, I could tell you about. 

Claudius asked for a serving of mushrooms. Before he could pick any, a professional taster, another court profession that would last as a result of the inherent scheming of the political world, was called upon, and put one of the mushrooms in his mouth, with not problem whatsoever. 

But he was in on Agrippina’s scheme, and put another mushroom in instead. This was the reason no poison affected him: he hadn’t inhaled any. 

And foolishly, Claudius did. He was soon after affected by stomach pains, and would agonize for a few days before passing. 

With no one in their way, the newly made Emperor Nero and his mother Agrippina became the rulers of the Roman Empire. Agrippina would keep on influencing the political life of the City before all her scheming would eventually turn against her. 

Indeed, her own son would eventually find her overbearing. As a result, he decided to eliminate her – he only learned from the best, after all. 

A first attempt, by trapping her boat, failed, and Agrippina left, far away from her son. But no matter to him, for he sent soldiers to where she was to finish the job. She knew her final hour had come, and instead her challenging her fate, she exposed her stomach and proudly declared: 

“Smite my womb. This is where the abominable son came”. 

And smite they did. 

*  
A vixen or a snake, possibly a version of Oedipus Rex where Jocasta was to blame for all, Agrippina was the impetus for the dark legend of Emperor Nero. 

But is it so surprising? She came to be in a time of challenges, and her entire entourage had some level of scheming and instability. 

You might have wished for the life of a princess. The brothers Grimm treat the rise from rags to riches as a happy ending, and what better place for a woman in this situation to land in than a royal court? 

But remember, politics are a permanent chess match. The people of power constantly gamble with their reputation, their place, or their lives in the most extreme places. 

And once you are in, there is no coming back. And you should know that very well, since we are in Hell. 

_You are mine, forever and ever._

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter V: Agrippina, a black widow for the _princeps_  
END


	8. Chapter VI -  La Voisin, or the black masses under the Soleil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth sinner, made famous by a historical scandal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Châtelet: French for an old fortress, or a little castle.

It has been a day on the surface world since we last met in this circumstance, haven’t we, my pretty?

I saw you ponder about my last words to you on that moment, after I finished the story of Agrippina. 

And as I realise, you still doubt me. Quite the persistent little pest this seed of doubt is. 

And now I see the reason of your doubt. You believe that, at a time where the followers of Christus were few, the elites of Rome could not grasp a concept as evangelical as sin? 

Hee-hee… your youth shows. I did not believe such innocence at this age would be possible. Well, do you believe one has to follow Him to be morally righteous? Or to have no faith to be morally depraved? Anyone can be a sinner, whatever their age, faith, sex, their characteristics. 

And I shall perfect your education in that matter, while I show another sinner – at a time when the Christians rule over Europe, at the current time in the kingdom of France. 

Did you know of Catherine Deshayes? Mayhap, like many, you know her as “La Voisin”. A surprising accord for anyone familiar with the tongue of Molière: shouldn’t she nicknamed “ _La voisine_ ”? 

The truth is, this appellation owes nothing to her being anybody’s neighbour. It is a name she obtained from her late husband, a Parisian jeweller by the name of _sieur_ Antoine Montvoisin, of whom she quickly became the widow. A specialty of hers to come. 

But in the meantime, her husband’s activities were not the source of the fortune she would amass. One of her most innocent sources of income was chiromancy – a word given by the Greeks to describe the activity of reading one’s future in the line of their hands. Another one, less than savoury, was the sales of poison. 

And if you were to wonder, no: she is not the successor of Locusta I was announcing yester-day. This other poisoner shall come at a later point in time. You should look forward to it: we have eternity before us, after all. 

A famous service of hers, as she was known by many of her contemporaries – women especially – for her poisons. Women could, when their husband inevitably tired them, call forth her services to conveniently have them be-gone. One of my interests was a lotion that would not poison the husband; instead, some ladies would use it if they felt androphageous, or had curiosity about the taste of human flesh. 

You can tell immediately that her links to the human flesh is very strong. Even more so when the affairs would lead to her being discovered by the very sun of France. 

La Voisin took part in black masses. She claimed that she killed more than two thousand five hundred unborn children. Which is one of the reasons why her practicing abortions was so problematic. 

I am pretty neutral on this matter, actually. When the usage is less than savoury, on the other hand, my mind changes and I become infuriated. 

One of her most famous clients is the king’s mistress, a certain Mme de Montespan. She was herself a fair lady, but her favours came from more than her looks. As indeed, one day, she came to meet La Voisin for her services. She accepted, and demanded assistance from Etienne Guibourg. Despite his affiliation as a catholic priest, he betrayed his own faith and practised the occult, calling forth pagan gods. 

These pagan gods were put in my ranks in the minds of men. The reality is, I have no relation to them. Why would I, the impartial judge of sinners, assist them in their selfish ways? I am merely a judge and a punisher, my dear. 

The mass for the noblewoman’s wishes is the only one I shall tell. But it had to be done three different times for the effect to be maximal. Three futures sacrificed for the desires of one, what a pity! 

Between Paris and Orleans is a town by the name of Villebouzin. In this town, a _châtelet_. In this little castle, the room that bore witness to the dark ceremony of Mme de Montespan. 

In the dark of night, when no one else would see her, the king’s favourite hasted her steps towards the châtelet. This was the meeting point for her and the sinners. At last, she entered its grounds, La Voisin and Guibourg having arrived before her. 

The preparation could begin. For the ritual to happen as meant, Montespan undressed herself, revealing her charms to the priest and the poisoner. They each handed her a candle, which she held in each her hands, then leaned against the cold, damp slabs of the castle floor. A new-born infant, still crying, was held in La Voisin’s arms. Montespan had positioned her naked body in a cross-like positions, the candles at arm’s length. As a final step in this preparation, Guibourg put a chalice on the lady’s bare stomach. 

Now the ceremony could begin. 

“Astaroth, Asmodeus, gods of love, we call upon thee in this ceremony. We dedicate to thee our loves and feelings, and demand that you fulfil this noblewoman’s wish.”

The infant’s cries intensified. La Voisin handed the child to Guibourg. The child was silenced when Guibourg, for the sake of the ceremony to succeed, slashed the infant’s throat. The young’s blood flowed unto the chalice, which overflew onto the lady’s stomach. It kept flowing down her naked body, and reached her nether region. The priest and poisoner then chanted, in unison: 

“Astaroth, Asmodeus, princes of love, I implore that you accept the sacrifice of this babe. In exchange, I would like to keep the affection of the king, the favours of princes and princesses in the court and the satisfaction of my every desire.”

The first ceremony ended on that note. Still stained by a child’s blood, Montespan dressed back hastily and left the _châtelet_. 

Not long after, another ceremony was held. Instead of using a châtelet as their meeting point, they went to the countryside and used a cabin far away from other men as the place of their ritual. And once again, a child was the price for her place. 

Things only happened slightly differently for the third ceremony. This time, it happened at the very house of La Voisin herself, a chic type of house in Paris. The preparations were made before Montespan arrived: a mattress was put on the floor, with a stool on each end. No outside natural light was used for the ceremony – La Voisin had made sure that all windows would be covered by a cloth to make the room completely dark, and the lights were provided by candlesticks, purposefully put on each corner of the room. Guibourg had adopted his priest decorum and put on a white chasuble embroidered with black cones – although nothing sacred was to take place in this house. 

Mme de Montespan eventually entered the room, already dressed as Eve. Then she lied down on the mattress. The practitioners put a little mat on her, then a crucifix and a chalice on it. The chant of the last ceremonies began anew:

“Astaroth, Asmodeus, gods of love, we call upon thee in this ceremony. We dedicate to thee our loves and feelings, and demand that you fulfil this noblewoman’s wish.”

The new-born they brought was again throat-slit, but this time, no blood spilled. The unholy paschal was born premature! Whatever! Guibourg pierced his heart so the new-born’s blood could be received. The chant followed: 

“Astaroth, Asmodeus, princes of love, I implore that you accept the sacrifice of this babe. In exchange, I would like to keep the affection of the king, the favours of princes and princesses in the court and the satisfaction of my every desire.” 

And thus the final ceremony ended, with another babe dead for sinners. In the dead of night, Mme de Montespan returned to the court of Versailles. 

That night, when the king had dinner with her, she proposed a special condiment. 

“Oh, I would love to taste it, my dear,” accepted King Louis XIV. 

“You should love it, Your Majesty!” she answered, spilling what little of the babe’s blood she had kept from the ceremony. 

Not long after the story, Fate would have its way. 

From natural causes passed Jean Baptiste Godin de Sainte-Croix, a cavalry officer and adventurer crippled with debt. During his _post-mortem_ inventory was discovered a little case, full of letters from his mistress and phials. 

And with the discovery began a domino effect of noblewomen being found having used phials similar. The Affairs of the poisons took the court of the Roi Soleil by storm. And it was not long before their main furnisher was found out. And it was none other than La Voisin. 

Guards came to arrest her. Before taking her, they, as good old Jack would say, “pissed the night away and got wasted”. I am looking forward to meeting you again, old foe. 

Five hour after that fact, she was carried in a white dress. Like any other witch, she would be burned at the stake. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t escape. And when offered a chance at salvation, she rejected it. Foolishly so. If she knew her fate…

She was put on the stake. She was covered in straw. She tried to push it back. The flames overtook her. Her entire body was left as nothing but ashes. 

As for the other participants: Guibourg was arrested and imprisoned in Besancon, where he died without ever seeing the light of day again. As for Montespan, she got away scot-free in the eyes of justice, as the favours of the king helped. But her reputation was forever tarnished by the Affair. 

She wanted favours from the court, and instead they rued her. The irony is palpable from here. Its taste is a delish. 

You came. 

Your tolerance for it seems to be low. Quite unfortunate, I feel.  
But I hope you payed attention to the tale. It could be quite cautionary, I believe. And its moral is of the best variety: true forever, and easy to follow. 

In the end, Catherine and Montespan did the same mistake as Jack. 

I offer no favour, and see your sins. 

And when the time comes, they will bite you back. 

And when that happens, there is nothing left of you. 

And for you, only regret. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter VI: La Voisin, or the black masses under the Soleil  
END


	9. Chapter VII -  The ant crusher, the Polyphemus of the animal kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventh sinner, guilty of cruelty that is payed back unexpectedly.

You do understand my creed through these stories, do you not?

When witnessing as much evil as I do, one can only realise that yes, _Homo homini lupus_ : man is indeed a wolf to man. 

But not only. One can tell a sinner in potent when the animal kingdom is the first to suffer its cruelty. 

Animals are not the machines Descartes thinks them to be: they may be guided by instinct first, but suffer they can. This false belief make them the ideal training ground for the future tormentors of man. Do you remember Bill? He too began his crimes by bleeding cattle. 

Another boy, however, could not pass through the barrier of animal torment. The fauna had its revenge early. 

Ants are some of the most wonderful creatures on earth. 

Whenever they work, it is all that is on their mind. The worker ants always bring food and materials to the ant hill in a perfect line, wherever they be. 

Some content themselves by revelling in this spectacle. Others, like our protagonist, decide to take a more active role. A Southern American boy, known as the ant crusher. 

The first time he saw a line of ants at work, he put his finger in the line. The second time, one ant perished under his finger. It made a little _pop_. A sound he found pleasing to the ears. Then, immediately after, he decided to do it again. And again. And again. 

It became a favourite pass time of his to destroy these lines by crushing the ants. “Squish, squish!” he would say all the time. 

If the ants were as sapient as men were, what would have gone through their heads? What distress would they feel? To be going in a day of work, in an already dangerous environment, and then a giant who is not even predatory to your species decides to entertain himself by massacring you kind! 

Well, when I witnessed the story, I suspected that the ants might have more than just a hive mind. As one ant, during a time when the infamous ant crusher had attacked a line of workers going back to the hill, dropped its charge and climbed the colossus’ arm. Discreetly, this little hero sneaked into the crusher’s sleeve, only provoking a slight tickle on his arm. But the crusher did not mind a much as he should probably have, too focused on his usual game. The little ant climbed and climbed, reached the neck, then the face, then the eye. 

And at the cost of its own life, it plunged its mandibles into the titan’s eyeball, causing him to blink and wince in pain, crushing the little hero in the process. The ant crusher ran away crying, his blinking smearing the little ant’s remains on his eye. 

The procession of worker ants kept going, while the crusher got back to his house. The next day, it was found out that the damage one to the crusher’s eye was irreparable, and the doctor had to remove the eye. 

Ant-kind could finally enjoy a few days of peace. But unfortunately, the crusher came back, his lack of an eye making him more akin to a cyclops. The days of “squish, squish!” returned, mostly unchanged. 

But one day, the crusher became curious. And instead of crushing an ant, he brought it to his face, careful as to not let it reduce his sight to none. 

And he put the ant in his mouth. He did not like the taste and spat at it back into the line, which had visibly increased its speed after he had tried to eat one of theirs. As such, the one ant that had a trip through his mouth, but also multiple ants who had failed to dodge the spit in time, drowned in the crusher’s saliva. 

The ant crusher became bored, and decided to go back home, insulting in the process a girl who was reprimanding him for spitting. The voices and angers became louder, and the colony could hear even as they got farther and farther away that the argument had devolved into an affray. 

Can ants have a council, like a real human court? 

It is a distinct possibility, since one of the ants behaved heroically. 

And considering the following events, I could think that there was one, following the attempt of the ant crusher to become an ant eater. 

For the sake of simplicity, I shall describe the imaginary council as if it had happened. It might very likely have, because of what shall happen next, but one can never be too certain. 

The queen, α, had become aware of the crusher’s actions against her colony. “Simply intolerable!” she said. “We have enough trouble with the anteaters, if the humans are getting at it too!”

One of the soldier ants, β, rightfully remarked: “Who can even tell what they are up to? The workers always remark that they are self-centred despite living as a community. How come they can?”

The worker γ added “Their morals are incomprehensible because of this. They individually come before their colony in their own eyes, yet worship heroes of the colony. They would use some weird solid paste to make figures of them. Who would even try that for ο? He would have preferred anonymity, since he did this not for himself, but for the entire colony.”

The soldier υ proposed “Then we should warn other colonies as well. They should learn how to prepare against it.”

Another soldier, φ, had a better idea: “Actually, I’ll just run and warn one specific colony. You should know which, and know how they are the better suited for the issue…”

The entire hill gasped, but all agreed this was the best, if not the most radical, solution. 

Φ had dragged the crusher far away from his home for the plan to work. From the comfort of his town to the Amazon rainforest. 

A place where the flora and the fauna are especially dangerous. Any tribe who lives there has known how to prepare against it through methods passed to the different generations. Being an urban boy, the crusher, however, was woefully unprepared. 

The ant had stolen a sheet of paper where he had written a word he would have sent to his friend. This made the crusher follow him for miles, until, in the middle of the forest, he came to a part of dirt, surrounded by the rainforest trees, which looked more sandy than dirty. 

There were big dirt warts all around. And from the dirt warts, which were ant-hills, came the crusher’s retribution. 

Red-ants. Infamously more aggressive than their brown counterpart. 

Φ announced: “This is your target. You know what to do?”

The one red ant it was talking to, a fighter by the name of Zayin, responded: “We were born ready”. 

Thousands of red ants formed a large circle around the ant crusher. Slightly panicking, the crusher attempted to do what he did best and stepped on the crowd. But even under his foot, some survived. And a few of these survivors found their footing in his shoe. They climbed and climbed, snuck into his sock, and bit his heel. 

And the ant crusher screamed in pain. He tried to run, but only to stumble on a root. 

“Take him.” ordered Zayin. 

The thousands and thousands of Davids combined their efforts to carry the panicking Goliath into one of the ant-hills. Some took the opportunity to bite him in other parts of the body, while workers enlarged the hole leading to the hill. The ant crusher was carried into the hill, and no one saw him after this. My suspicion, however, is that the ants paid evil unto evil, or rather, feasted upon the feast… 

Thus ended the reign of terror of the ant crusher upon ant-kind. 

Some tend to forget that the world of the infinitely small plays its part into the larger scale. All is made of atoms in the world of the living, after all, and their tribulations affect the surface. 

Some have tried to play as the almighty upon things lower than they, but this is a dangerous game. I myself learned that He does not take kindly to being contested.   
But I still have my part to play in the grand order of things. 

And it is when the lowest looses patience that the revolution begins. 

It may happen soon enough somewhere. Even in one of the stories I shall tell. 

But for now, one I have teased will arrive. Are you prepared? You should be. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter VII: the ant crusher, the Polyphemus of the animal kingdom  
END


	10. Chapter VIII - The new Locusta, the dangerous femininity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eigth sinner, a spiritual successor to one of the most infamous people in Ancient Rome.

How many women have we seen amongst these sinners? This will now be the third we have been talking about. 

Surprisingly so, in fact. The so-called “strong sex” has an admiration for its opposite that is quite fascinating, because it is combined with fear. 

You do remember how the male sinners were, do you not? They were mostly brutish, ready to use their physical strength to impose their superiority. But they do know that, in regards to cunning and intelligence, many women have them bested. And when in a fight, cunning is that much more important. Simply remember how Agrippina rose to power. 

Therefore, is it so surprising that many are associated with poisons? And the original Locusta made it her specialty. Just like one I have teased so, the new Locusta, her successor. 

No one knows much about this new Locusta. Only that she was a woman who specialised in potions. In that regard, she was very close to her namesake from the times of Ancient Rome. 

But I do know her story, and since keeping the mystery around Jack only made you doubtful of my word, I will try to be more explicit this time. 

She was an Italian girl. Her passion since a very young age was the occult. This would be explained by her parents having been made anathema for their closeness to pagans. 

This may not have been too problematic for many, if it weren’t for the fact that many of them had a vast knowledge of poisons. Be it fast acting ones or poisons designed to kill slowly and painfully, they could concoct many. 

The closeness of her family was actually found out when the wife had been found to use poison to win in a love rivalry. She had suspicions that her husband was being adulterous with her friend, and had called upon a pagan to solve her problem. One night, the friend was poisoned to death by the wife who had snuck some into her plate. However, the crime was poorly hidden – the phial had fallen from the woman’s dress, and the relation was quickly made. It was then that the closeness of the family was revealed, and they were promptly excommunicated. 

The young girl that would become the new Locusta was fifteen at the time, and would be made an orphan by this affair. Angered by her husband’s refusal to follow her out of Italy and leaving behind their Christian lives, she asked some more phials of their connections, after which she warned her daughter to find the pagans after the family dinner. Their last family dinner, as the wife had poisoned both her plate and her husband’s, outside of everyone’s sights, and both parents perished in front of their child, the wife hugging the panicking husband and declaring their love eternal. 

Confused by the turn of events, the teenage girl simply complied with her parent’s request and left to find the pagans, outside the limits of the Ancient City. This is where she would learn about the ways of poisons which destroyed her family – and make them her own weapon. 

The young girl spent five years growing amongst the pagans, learning their ways with the poisons. After that time, she returned to the city of her childhood. 

What she learned from them would be that those poisons were more than just a liquid that kills you from the inside. Many of her other formulas were lost to time after the Affair of the poisons struck France – and La Voisin, whom we have talked about earlier, made her name and was executed. The phial of androphagy was one of the lotions this new Locusta made – she even partook in that activity – but she also had phials that would do more than just suffocate the drinker or reduce his heartbeat till none. Some would melt them, slowly burn them, make them vomit their entire insides, or induce madness. 

Such a collection was her own little secret. She was careful not to make herself known too much of the authorities. But to some women, she was a big help. 

Her little business usually went as such. 

A woman distraught with her husband would have to wait in a remote street till the stroke of midnight. She then would have to call “Locusta, Locusta, I need your services.” for the poisoner to come offer them. 

This new Locusta would come her body entirely veiled, only her eyes being visible. She would only open a part of the veil to present her phials to the client, who would decide by picking one in exchange of money – a simple business, only to happen in the dark. 

At other times, however, the women would bring the husband themselves. They then would call “Locusta, Locusta, I have a bargain” and the poisoner would come also. The husband would then be exchanged for the phials of the woman’s choice, leaving Locusta to dispose of the husband herself. 

And to do so, she would take a sample of the poison and use it on the man to prove in good faith the viability of her liquids. The results were never a pretty sight: many women saw their husband vomit their blood into the street, a blood that would evaporate on the spot, of become a candle in the night, which would lead the women to escape and hide the fire. 

And always, the client was satisfied. 

For many years this business was never found. The new Locusta would remain in obscurity, hiding from the authorities of Rome. 

In fact, she would only be found because she decided so. 

An officer went to have dinner with the woman, who had grown to be a fair dame who attracted the gazes of men. Some would even ask her out, only to never be seen after the first date. No one batted an eyebrow yet – she would always ask to have their dates at the times of drafts, and people simply supposed they would have gone to battle and perished at it when they never returned. 

But one of them had disappeared after the first date – in fact, right after returning from battle. The military had come to the woman’s house for questioning. 

“Alright, I will tell you. But would you mind if they had drinks?” she asked before the officers could begin. They accepted the kindness and drank alongside her. 

“So, where is Giuseppe? We haven’t seen him in a while.” They asked. 

Her answer would come as a shock to all. 

“Oh, he is in the glasses. We were having a sip of him right now.”

The phrasing made one of them spit his sips in shock. 

“ _Of_ him?!”

The woman was arrested. 

Now, why would she decide to make herself arrested? The reason is such: 

After her trial by the Inquisition, she was sentenced to burn at the stake. But she had other plans: the image of her parents’ demise had inspired her, and like her mother, she would leave in her own terms. 

In her cell, she used her charms – another method her sex often uses to get their needs – and seduced the guardian. She drank from one of the phials she had hidden on herself before she kissed the guardian. But she hadn’t swallowed the potion, and instead blew it into the guardian's mouth. Feeling the liquid in his mouth, he realised his mistake, and passed almost immediately. 

Now all she had to do was take the keys and unlock the door of her cell. She then came and met the Inquisitors in his room, where she undressed herself and began to seduce him again. But on the way, she had taken the other phial for herself. 

“What are you…” he began, but she silenced him with a kiss. She locked him to his bed and blandished him. 

“I thought we might have fun for a little while, since I am almost done for.” She answered. 

He had no objections. He let himself into her embrace and had their entertainment. It was only after a while that he noticed he was becoming wet. But not from sweat. 

“Did you wash beforehand?” he asked, intrigued. 

“No,” she answered, “it is not water; it is me.”

And the night became one of terror for the Inquisitor as he saw the face of his partner melt. 

“What? WITCH! WI…” but she once again silenced him a kiss, as her entire body slowly liquefied on top of his. The liquid flesh began to enter his mouth, and he swallowed with difficulty. 

Although she was becoming liquid, the process was not painful for the new Locusta. Everything in her body was liquefying, including her nervous system and brain. Her consciousness slowly waned as her lips lost shape on the Inquisitor’s, and soon, all of her body was liquid, leaving the bed of the Inquisitor wet, and the Inquisitor himself suffocating as the liquid woman went down his throat the wrong way. 

Another guard, who was patrolling the ward, was alerted by the Inquisitor’s coughs and went to find him. In his lodge, the Inquisitor was suffocating from the flesh in his mouth, and the guard did not realise the nature of all the liquid on the bed. But he saw an empty and broken phial, which, unbeknownst to anyone, the Locusta kept hidden in a little pocket she had put under her skin. 

The guard helped the Inquisitor catch his breath, and then asked him about the phial. The Inquisitor didn’t know what to answer. 

And this was exactly the plan of the new Locusta. She would poison herself and make her body disappear forever, and, if her liquid shape failed to drown the Inquisitor – which she knew was very likely to happen – her phial would spell trouble for the Inquisitor himself. 

Unsurprisingly, no one found her again, but the Inquisitor was left with the accusations of poisoning on his side. He eventually died the way the new Locusta was supposed to, in a blaze of shame. 

This was the story of the new Locusta. Hiding behind the veil of a poisoner was a temptress who knew what she wanted, and knew how to play her cards. 

Is it a surprise to you, to see your sex presented in such an unflattering way?

Don’t be. As I have said before, sin does not care about who you are, and can affect anybody. It is simply that nature gave woman a different set of attributes to use to their advantage. 

It is something common to all. 

And it can be influenced by another. Like she was by her mother, or the techniques of the pagans. 

But what happens when the influencer has a larger crowd than just one? 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter VIII: The new Locusta, the dangerous femininity  
END


	11. Chapter IX - The revolution of chaos, A. the Gadfly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ninth sinner, the voice of chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> πόλις: Greek for city.  
> Additionaly, if you wondered why there was one franchise to which it didn't seem to connect, read one of the paragraphs here and wonder no more. Though it is not merely loose background: it will become more obvious when the other franchise comes.

But what happens when the influencer has a larger crowd than just one? I ask. Do you have an idea?

Well, you might realise that the consequences should usually be disastrous. 

Gadflies. An insect larger than an inoffensive fly, who lives biting livestock, or even men. They are troublesome animals for everyone. But it has been used for a positive analogy. 

Indeed, in Plato’s works, Socrates, philosopher and troublemaker extraordinaire, is often compared to a gadfly. More precisely, his maieutic is compared to a “gadfly’s fruitful bite” – his method hurts you by making you realise you were truly ignorant, yet makes you aware of it and therefore has a positive effect on you. This is why he thought “social gadflies” were essential: by making controversial statements that harm the πόλις like gadflies harm you, it would have the positive effect of improving the community by making it aware of its issues. 

This one, not so much. His main interest was not to change the order for the better, it was merely chaos for the sake of chaos. 

This gadfly’s name was Alexander Kuon, and he lived in a faraway land across the sea. A land of prosperity and liberty. 

But, as much as their ideal of “anyone can succeed” is seemingly purely unreasonable, they had the clairvoyance of mitigating it with “one can succeed with enough work”. Kuon, however, was lazy, and mostly relied on his talent and charisma to have things go his way. 

He eventually dropped from school, and was unheard for five years. Wherever he went, no one knew, and people suspected that he died. The reason for this theory being that he had not given any news of his whereabouts, and no one could realise what he was doing at the time. 

I will tell you, however, that one of his activities during this exile was to read one of the most controversial works of literature in history: _The Gadfly_ , from Irish authoress Ethel Lilian Voynich. One suspects that this novel might have had an influence on him, because of what he would do upon his return. It tells the story of an Italian man who manages to throw a revolution against the ever-strong religious institutions of his country… a reading Kuon found “most entertaining”, in his own admission. 

Oh, it is not familiar either? Well, you can realise this is another story that will come, and not one that had already happened, can you? 

Anyway, it was after five years of absence that he came back. He rang the bell of the residence of his childhood friend, Theodore Pluck, and was welcomed by the latter’s wife. 

“Oh my! Is that you, Kuon?” she asked, incredulous at finding an old acquaintance of hers and her husband’s. 

“I’ve dropped the name, Anne;” he answered: “now you can call me A.”

Some clarification is needed as to this new appellation. 

Despite all appearances, the name is not the initial of his first name. In fact, it is not even the first letter of the Latin alphabet. It is, instead, the first letter of the _Greek_ alphabet, α – the two letters look undistinguishable when they are uppercase. 

As for the meaning behind the choice, it needs a little familiarity with the Greek language itself. Α is its first letter, so many will take this choice as to mean a new beginning for Kuon. Christus himself refers to his own person as the α and the ω – the beginning and the end. In reality, his project was in continuation with his true character – a true character he kept hidden to the others. No, the α he names himself after is not the letter in itself, but a prefix. More precisely, it is the privative prefix α-, one analogous to the English suffix -less. 

But some traces of it can be found in the English language, and in words that define Α’s character: atheist – godless – or anarchist – without upper power to govern him. 

This was the true meaning behind the rename: he intended it not as a renewal, but as a negation of everything. 

Α was quite content to find Anne Pluck responding to the door, actually. 

“Where’s Theo?” he asked, simply to be sure. 

“He’s at work. He’s the librarian.” She answered, unaware of his intent. 

“Good.”

He entered the house of his former friend, pleased to find his wife – his adolescent love. 

“I am back, and I am a new person, Anne,” he continued; “there will be big changes coming, to human society and human mind. I came here to ask you: will you partake in this change with me?”

“Oh?” she exclaimed, surprised at the proposal. “I don’t know… I don’t think I can leave Teddy alone, you know?”

“You are still putting faith in your love for him?” he reacted, incredulous. “Just cut it out, Anne. I never believed in faith; you know that, don’t you? You and your husband have been way too keen on finding a purpose to your life, when it is just a succession of random events with no subjacent meaning whatsoever. Mankind must stop limiting its understanding by putting reasons behind everything.”

“Just because you cannot find sense in it, Kuon,” she replied angrily, “doesn’t mean there isn’t.”

He was struck with shock upon hearing that. “You… you are just stuck in this time where you must put meaning behind everything, aren’t you? You are stuck in the past…” He reached for a knife in her kitchen. 

“What are you doing?”

“You will be the steeping stone of the revolution. Your time has long come, Anne. I am sorry, but this is for the better!”

No one could hear the screams of Anne Pluck and the knife reached her chest and pierced through her heart. Α struck the woman he loved six or nine times, as if to leave a memento of his attraction to her. He left her dead body in the bedroom, and escaped. He counted on his former friends tendencies to dispose of the body.  


As Kuon, he had known the secret of Theodore Pluck’s deep dark desires. Now, it was time for him to play his role and spread chaos. 

Believers were aghast at the sudden urge of chaos provoked by a faithless man. But atheists too pondered; we do not believe in God, but is this display of chaos truly appropriate? 

In just a few weeks, the spider that Α was used the web to catch its preys. When they were caught, rather than devour them like Pluck did his family, he infected them like a _cordyceps_ and spread to them his idea of pointlessness. 

Some truly believed his words would improve the world. That by freeing mankind of an outdated idea that the world had a purpose, the species would improve itself beyond its limitations and cease to see said limitations as an unsurmountable boundary, but an obstacle meant to be overcome. 

Α was not one of them. He couldn’t care less if the world had a positive change from his actions. He cared most about the direct effect of his actions: chaos. Pure, unabashed chaos, spreading to every social sphere and causing destruction. And it was to his contentment: the chaos was entertaining for him to see.  
Employees revolted against their bosses. The bosses saw no purpose in going on. The civility of the road, already so fragile, was broken in shards, and violence and madness reigned in the roads and cities. 

Every social layer was infected by the words of Α. Even the higher ups, content in their position, saw the lack of purpose as truth, and revolted. 

Chaos was everywhere. The number of crimes skyrocketed: petty thefts, murders, all that was a crime happened _en masse_. Which is only logical: if there was no deeper meaning to life, no deeper meaning to death, if nothing had a pre-set purpose, why obey morals? They were merely established as arbitrary limits, weren’t they? 

Some became inhuman in the most literal sense of the term. Creatures devoid of humanity formed from the chaos, as the men they once were abandoned their humanity. We might call them “Heartless”, for the sake of simplicity. And they will matter later. 

And all of this was established by a nihilistic speech pronounced by Α, as every mean of communication had been hijacked by him:

“Nothing matters. No one matters. 

“I am not simply saying that the higher-ups have no care about the lower-downs. This, in itself, is actually really obvious. No, even they do not matter. All their accomplishments don’t matter. Because everything is fragile. 

“Even if you do believe in any sort of god, I ask you: then why are we mortal? Why is everything ephemeral? Everything and everyone you know and love is only the result of chemical reactions dictated by no other rule than randomness. You may appear to be a master of your destiny, but only for futile reasons: even if one were to make himself immortal, he would die anyway. Because the universe is only mortal itself. Over billions of years, it will be gone also, and the achievements of all its inhabitants will be erased along with it. 

“But do not panic. There is a reason this prospect sounds more worrying than it actually is: society. All throughout your life, it brainwashes you into accepting that even if you will die, the world shall keep going. It ascertains an idea of eternity that surpasses the individual, reassuring him that nothing is in vain. But the reality is, all is vain. Nothing matters. And people should live with it. 

“And you can only be free by refusing this society, rejecting it, revolting against it.

“I look forward to your decision.”

And the spark burned. 

Living became a nightmare for the weeks following the announcement. 

But rest assured, my fair lady, for the weeks of revolt and chaos were only in the number of three. 

It was ended by a representative of social order: a cop, whose profession had fallen from grace by then. A single bullet wound ended the life of Α the gadfly. And with him, the revolt. 

There is some delightful irony in this conclusion: the face of a revolt that rejected any obedience to a figure was the only thing keeping it going. With him gone, calm came back. 

I take it as to mean anyone eventually ends up finding a face to hide behind when they do the least savoury of things. 

And the reason why my name got its infamy. I became the face of evil for all who delved into it. 

And even those faces end up being the sinners themselves. 

But lacking a society is not the worst things of all. A figurehead can represent all the wrongs of a society too. Speaking of which…

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter IX: The Revolution of chaos, Α. The Gadfly  
END


	12. Chapter X -  General Al-Dieaya, the iron fist of the desert.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tenth sinner, the enforcer of tyranny in the lands of the Qu'ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> οἱ πολλοί: Greek for "the masses", with a pejorative tone. Sometimes spelled hoi polloi, but I just had to flex my hellenist brain muscles.

There exist a world near the continent of Europe you live in. In fact, its coast is on the Mediterranean Sea, where the merchants of Venice furnish their city with some goods which they gained from their travels there. It is called the Middle East, for it is midway through East and West. 

Were you aware of it? Possibly not. After all, you were just a peasant girl with her house near the bank of the river Rhine. The sea might not even be familiar to you. It is a world known mostly by merchants, travellers and scholars. 

In this world, the people have a brownish tone of skin and live in sandy deserts. Their art refuses to represent the human face, and usually contents itself in representing their curvy writings. Their lives are rhythmed by trips to the _bazaars_ and the prayers addressed to Muhammad, the faceless prophet of their faith which is based on a book other than the Bible they call the Qur’an. They do have a pesky habit of assimilating me to a certain Iblis, and make me the cause of sin, though. 

But their lives, so far, is mostly one of ease. They are different from you and your family, from the entirety of Europe. Theirs is an exotic world for the Europeans, who have a fascination for their way of life and their landscapes. 

However, they are oftentimes considered barbaric and backwards. As if the Europeans weren’t enough! 

But will come a time when this region is left a powder keg. In the near future, one man will participate in the shattering of their identity and impose his order upon them. 

Salam Al-Dieaya is his name, and whichever part of the Middle East he lives in doesn’t matter. From a young age, he was promised a career in arms, in which he very easily made his markings. By the time he was an adult, he was a general and had authority on the military force of his country. 

But he did not partake in this career all on his own. He was friends with a young boy with the name Ali Al-Mughtasib, with whom he was very close. They had the shared taste of visiting the bazaars and friendly affrays. Most of the time, they would battle just of the sake of it, which would cause every person in the immediate vicinity to gather around them and watch in awe. 

This violence was also a part of their personality: they would mostly answer the questions they were asked aggressively. Despite this, they were also obedient, so much so that their violence was not too much of a bother to many. It also made them perfect for the military – they work as such: one must obey and not contest orders. 

But it would later be proven that letting them in would be a fatal mistake. 

Both men were fully grown adults when it happened. 

Over time, their ruler, who was authoritarian but just, had grown weak. Age was getting to him, and it was only a matter of time before he would be gone. 

In a rare occasion for their country, his succession was to be decided by the people. But many of the elites had a terrible image of οἱ πολλοί. In their eyes, most were way too ignorant to decide the future of an entire nation, and that they would see this important moment as just an inconvenience in their day-to-day lives. 

Mughtasib and Dieaya had been the leading figures in the military movement that would undo the decision that was left in the hands of the populace. The French gave this kind of uprising a name – _coup d’état_. The military forces had decided to take matters into their armed hands and took over the country. 

It all happened in a single night. The lowly soldiers had infiltrated the palace of the ruler thanks to some guards who were in on the coup. It was in the palace that the ruler resided, and in the period of transition, the would-be successor was visiting the palace and spent the night here. 

Ruckus spread in the palace as the guards who were still defending their nation’s ruler had noticed the intruders and opened fire. Most of the guards were neutralised, and only some of the trespassers. 

Mughtasib and Dieaya had entered the palace following the attacks of the reconnaissance soldiers. They cocked their firearms and prepared to open fire on the remaining guards. A few had been shot down when the ruler and the successor appeared in the corridor, aghast at the chaos in the palace. 

The ruler, Sina, called out to them as if they were his children. 

“How could you, Dieaya, Mughtasib?! I gave you your life opportunities, and you sully the grounds of this sacred palace!”

The soldiers hesitated. It was true, they were very close to their ruler, a wise a pious man who went in the mosques alongside the people. If he were gone because of them, they, and probably their god Allah, would never forgive them. Would a disagreement truly justify a life of regret? 

All could have ended right here, right now, with this single moment of hesitation. Then the successor opened his mouth. 

“Truly dishonourable! You should be sentenced in martial court!”

And all hesitation had vanished from the men’s minds. 

“Sir… it is true that what we did was awful. Your life is going to end, and we spread chaos in this sacred place. The future of the nation should be ensured…” Al-Dieaya spoke, approaching the successor, then pointing his arm at him: “…and this man is not the future we need.” Before anyone could protest, he opened fire and made the would-be successor into a cadaver. 

The ruler was resigned: “If you truly believe so, end me now. My time is out, and I know it.”

The hesitation returned. 

“Open fire! Do it if you want our nation to have a future!”

He complied, and with a single metal slug, the coup succeeded. 

Ali Al-Mughtasib and Salem Al-Dieaya became the rulers of their nation. Which one? It matters little. For soon, the climate of unease in the Middle East was taken advantage of, and, by force of extensive military campaigns, all of the region fell under the nation’s rule. 

The Middle East became one single nation named Maeraka. They named their capital Sahat after building it on the bank of the Euphrates, as if they were builders of a new civilisation. But which civilisation, may I ask, would deserve to be called such when the barbarity it builds itself upon carries over to the founded civilisation itself? In lieu of improving the fragile stability of the Middle East, the violent characters of the putschists made the iron fisted rule of Maeraka one of brutality. 

Ali Al-Mughtasib was the sole real ruler of Maeraka. Between visits in his own harem, a practice that repulse your continent, he would pass bills that ensured his continuous rule, and the ones that concerned the people where very restrictive. And Salem Al-Dieaya was their enforcer in the capital of Sahat. Other soldiers, who had sworn their eternal fidelity to the rulers on the Qur’an, were posted in most regions and enforced the laws. The living conditions of the people were miserable, and they turned to their Islamic faith to stand their misery. 

Not much changed between the coup and the event that would to this order’s end. And the misery Ali Al-Mughtasib and Salem Al-Dieaya brought upon the very πολλοί they trusted so little would cause a spanner in the works that would signal the end of their reign. 

A rebel army had formed to overthrow the illegitimate government. They were framed of many crimes by said government and began to be discredited in the eyes of the populace. 

An occasion was presented to them when people came to their lands to help the people in need. An organization that, although basing their flag on the nation of their origins', responded to no government, and travelled the world to assist the needing. 

They established camp somewhere close to the river Jordan. One day, their camp was ransacked by what seemed to be rebels, and a threatening letter was left claiming only they had the monopoly on the people’s salvation. 

The reality was that Al-Dieaya had been sent far away from his hometown and capital, and lead a secret and illegal raid against the camp of the humanitarians. With the planted evidence, they were certain that the rebels’ reputation would wane significantly. 

But they did not count on one thing – and who could have: they knew not that one of the humanitarians, outside of his medical expertise, was reckless. 

This Spanish young man had followed the trails left behind by the army and found out they were the ones responsible. He was keeping notes of everything he found, but was discovered. 

“Leave no witnesses.” Ordered the regime’s right hand man. 

And soon enough, the Spanish boy was about to pay for his recklessness, because he would have found the truth. 

But in due time, the real rebels came and attacked the army. This let the young boy flee, but not before keeping a record of the ensuing battle. The army was left to escape. 

The whole world caught wind of the records, and the regime’s duplicity was revealed for all to see. Support for the rebels increased drastically, and the following month, Sahat was under attack by the rebels, whose ranks had increased drastically. 

In the same way Sina had lost his life in a coup, so did Ali Al-Mughtasib. And as the would-have-been successor of Sina had declared he deserved, Salem Al-Dieaya was tried in martial court, and sentenced to death by the rebel leaders. And taking lessons from the disastrous results of the two men’s coup, the rebels sought to ensure democracy would prevail in the nations that constituted Maeraka, before they would – inevitably – secede. 

All of their decorum was merely an image used to preserve their rule. 

But their use of it was appropriate. I never believed in civilisation to begin with. 

You may content yourself with ideas of order, of peaceful life, but the reality is, all is based on a throne of deceit, and it only is natural that the worst kind of regimes are the ones that hide it the least. 

But if anarchy is not the answer to a simulacre of civilisation, then is there a chance for peace?

No. I do not believe so. Because it is written in the nature of humans. 

Civilisation and peace are but an illusion. And I hope that you commit this to your memory. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter X: General Al-Dieaya, the iron fist of the desert.  
END


	13. Chapter XI -  The image of Kane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eleventh sinner, a ruler with a dark secret.

Just like yesterday and the day before, you meet me, inquisitive about the stories I have told you, are you not?  


Maybe you were too shocked at my declaration that civilisation was but an illusion. You seem way too attached to the world you lived in, and to your well-willed fantasies. 

But you remember that one of the suspicions around Jack the Ripper was that he was an image, right? Or rather, the truth behind _an_ image? Well, the poor have some merit in their suspicion: the upper classes can use their clout and charisma to cover themselves when they sin. But these are merely εἴδωλα, and they are as much of sinners as anybody.  


Even the desire to do good and change the world for the better might backfire on the enthusiast. Even the will to prevent the revolution of Maeraka will not change the state of the Middle East. And Kane – let us call him by this name only – shall serve as our example of this. 

Kane was the finest example of a success story the land where A the Gadfly shall spread chaos has ever met. 

He was a boy of the barns, who grew up in poverty. Yet he had a curious mind, and a thirst of knowledge unseen as of this time. When his family still used “ain’t”, “y’all”, “ya”, “yer”, and other apocopes of the lower class, he preferred the original “is not”, “you all”, “you” and “you are” or “your”, depending on the context one of his parents and siblings would use “yer” in. 

He learned most of it by listening to the lessons of the nearby schools, unbeknownst to the buildings of education. But he had sought to make a decent enough gain in order to pay for an official education, which he believed was his hope to rise. 

But he knew little jobs wouldn’t have him reach his in due time. Instead, he tried to sell other things than the productions of the barn. He would take some of nature’s gifts and transform them to be sold – a model the economy of the future will follow. It did get him earnings enough to do a year, where he learned some basics – write, read, count beyond the tenth number. But he could not afford a second year. 

Never mind this! He had kept a dictionary and decided to sneak into libraries at night to gain knowledge about advanced matters. And despite his young age, his sheer determination had him learn advanced fields – all self-taught! 

He eventually grew into adulthood, but his preoccupations were still on the side of the poor, having never forgotten his time at the barn. With the economic principles he taught himself, he developed a market that made him a lot more earnings than he ever did in his childhood. 

And his preoccupations attracted him to a field you should be familiar with, as it is one where many sinners, some of whom I have told you about, evolved – politics. 

In the country of Kane, the ruler is decided in part by the populace. This is the concept of democracy, which the rebels of Maeraka sought to put in place for their nation. But the elites had some merit in not putting too much faith in οἱ πολλοί, the founders of the nation might have thought, because they had put another layer to the decision: the people decide on professionals, before said professionals would vote for them. 

Kane had decided to take his chance and become the ruler of the nation. He had prepared his campaign to gather the popular vote, and a program that would improve the living condition of the poor. Never once did he forget his origins on the barn. 

His means were a success: he eventually became the ruler of his vast nation. He was enthroned under the acclaims of all, and his program was soon put in action. 

Many would agree that this was a time of greatness for the country, and that Kane was a good man. But this was merely an εἴδωλον, as is said in Greek, a language Kane had been familiar with had an age where few could even read it. It was, however, not the case at the time he rose. But soon after his accession to power, his wife, who had given him a daughter, passed away, and his personality made a complete shift. 

To the public, he was a hero. Behind closed doors, he had become violent and abusive of his maids and grooms. It would eventually reach a point where he broke one of the major taboos of the world of man. 

One night had established a model that would regularly follow between Kane and his sole daughter Clarisse. That night was the one where she celebrated her eighteenth birthday. 

For this special occasion, she was allowed to skip school early – she was born close to a period where students are given free-time in their learning schedule. She had re-joined her father in his place, where the ruler resides, a house coloured in all white despite being built by black slaves. 

The school Clarisse attended was peculiar: it was a private Catholic school, which only girls could attend. It just so happened that one of the attending girls was a follower of Sappho, and had confessed her love through a letter to the daughter of Kane. Clarisse was an ingenue – very much like you – and didn’t know what to make of it, so she had brought it back to her father, who had read it before they would depart and spend a week in a private residence. 

“One of your classmates wrote it?” he had asked. 

“Yes, Christine did. She is pretty shy, so it must have been hard for her to speak…” she had answered, innocently; “What does it mean?”

Kane had realised that the intent of the letter was that of a love confession. It made Kane happy, verily. But in the back of his mind played a scene he had tried to repress from his youth in the barn. A scene he had witnessed by accident, between his mother and the eldest brother of his household after he was found out to be, as the family would say, a “pederast”. A scene that shocked his young and at the time impressionable mind. 

These thoughts troubled him when the family travelled to the private residence, one of which the location was actually known only to them. A surprising fact, because in their time, Polichinelle might have been called one of the best secrets keepers. 

But Kane resigned, and left any regrets behind. The thought he had repressed had actually been enticing to him, and the absolute secrecy of the residence made the undertaking rather riskless in his mind. 

He entered the bedroom of his daughter, dressed in few clothes. 

“You are not sleeping in your room tonight, dad?”

“I have… a demonstration to make. You might want to take off your pyjamas.” 

She complied. He too removed what little clothing he had. 

“Dad… what are we…?”

He walked into her bed. “Shh… this will be fine…”

“Dad? You’re scaring me…”

And the taboo his family had broken once already was repeated in secrecy as the nude bodies of father and daughter enlaced; just like his mother and his homosexual brother before him, Kane and his daughter committed an incest. 

The pattern repeated every night. Clarisse became fully submitted to her father’s lust. And every night she seemed to lose more and more colour. But the process was kept a secret, and the girl suffered in secrecy from the Oedipus she had been brought into. 

After the end of her vacation, she returned to her school, where, without telling her father, she responded to the love confession in the affirmative. She felt no pleasure in spending the nights with her father, but her schoolmate’s confession had her intrigued. 

In the end, her other relationship was one she found more pleasurable. 

Her father ended his two terms – a rule of the democratic game in his country: the number of terms is limited to two. He left the House revered as a hero.  
Years would pass before he died also. Clarisse had then decided to lift the veil of secrecy in front of her partner, whose side she had stayed with her entire life. Outraged, the former schoolmate encouraged her to make it public. 

And this was how the image of Kane changed completely. He went from being a hero of the poor to an incestuous rapist. 

It went to the point his sepulchre had been vandalised and broke to pieces. With this act, all traces of the respect he once had vanished from the surface world. 

I do wonder, however, how the eternity he spends with his mother is… maybe the punishment is too lenient…

But here it is, the story of how Kane, a figure of much respect, had his εἴδωλον shatter and revealed what he truly was to the public that admired him. 

I truly wasn’t jesting about my stance on incest when I mentioned it, all the way back when I told you the story of Agrippina. I told you that you had the luck of having a loving father, but the truth, they might too loving for their own good. 

And this is when they fall, when the love for their kids leave them to do irreparable evil. 

Fittingly, however, is another figure who had fallen in part due to her family. This seems to be a common trend in these stories… Sin truly isn’t individual, is it? Well, this will be the fall of a kid this time. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter XI: The image of Kane  
END


	14. Chapter XII - Mother Knows Best, the fate of Ayano Aishi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the twelth sinner, sacrificing her heart out of love. 
> 
> WARNING: This one gets pretty dark. You have been warned.

I will make introductions brief this time, for the story is focused on a single moment that made the situation of the sinner unchangeable. 

But this girl has not the innocence of what that you have, so you are warned. And her body is the centrepiece of her eternal transformation. 

Ayano had come back to her house, tired after the activities of the day. Letting her hair down, she was now only dressed in her underwear and bra, as she was before putting her pyjamas. But she didn’t this time, something was preventing her from doing this. 

Indeed, Ayano was far from a normal schoolgirl. Ever since she was little, she was incapable of feeling any emotions, let alone empathy. Any time her father, who knew the true nature of his daughter and didn’t like it, were around, she’d put on a fake smile, and in public, she had mastered the art of appearing normal. This was apparently a trait inherited from her mother, and all the women in her line, the Aishi, were like her, until they met someone special. 

And Ayano had met this person. Her “senpai”, an older student by the name of Taro Yamada. Whenever he was in her line of sight, or in proximity, then she truly felt complete, she truly felt happy. And she felt angry when some other girl was trying to confess their love to him. But she had been given a solution by another mysterious student. A girl calling herself “Info-Chan”, for she had info on any student in Akademi High. And the solution she gave? A drastic one: kill her rivals. 

And indeed, ever since she met Info-Chan, Ayano had become a murderer. Any woman who had gotten interested in Senpai had learned this at the cost of their lives. His childhood friend Osana Najimi? Ayano had pushed her off of the school roof, putting a fake suicide note in her shoes. The cooking club leader Amai Odayaka, one of the sweetest students in the Academy? Stabbed to death by her own knife. Kizana Sunobu, the popular but snobbish leader of the Drama Club? Crushed by a prop during her own performance. Oka Ruto, the painfully shy leader of the Occult Club? She had been made into a human sacrifice. And now, a replacement nurse was pretty close to getting to senpai. She would have been dealt with easily, Ayano thought. She just had to poison her in any way, and she would’ve had her ironic death. 

But before she could do it, she passed by senpai, who then simply said “hi”. And in that instant, she was stopped in her tracks. Suddenly, something happened deep within Ayano, something she never felt before. Or rather, something she had felt before, but never with such intensity. 

That was why she wasn’t putting on her pyjamas that night. She had stopped her activities and was meditating back on what she felt at that precise moment. It was something she had been sort of familiar with, and what she was eventually seeking. She was feeling emotions, something that definitely made her different from those Heartless creatures roaming the streets from time to time, and whose numbers had risen significantly after A’s failed revolution. Those creatures were guided by pure instinct, whereas she was going towards a goal. But those emotions she felt, at that precise moment, were different. Those were so intense as to stop her in her track, and even now were preventing her from advancing in her murderous endeavours. And most of all, they were painful. Really, really painful. She did manage to go to her computer and ask some browsing professionals the nature of those emotions. When they asked if she had done something reprehensible before, she cringed. Eventually, she just said yes, not going into further details. 

And according to those professionals, she was feeling something called “guilt”. 

Guilt? She had heard that one before. She was feeling guilty for all she had done?

“But… mother said she didn’t… feel anything for her rivals…”

Ayano had been rational enough to realize that the guilt she felt was because she felt bad for her rivals. For taking their lives. But how? Before any of that, any empathy she pretended to feel was fake. She only pretended to feel bad when her friend was bullied, or when the teacher was going through a difficult divorce. And now, she legitimately felt concerned for the ones she was supposed to kill? How?

“Father…”

This. This single word, and she realized why. She had actually spent an unusual amount of her childhood close to her father – unusual for an Aishi, anyway. Maybe, during that time, something blossomed inside of her, something any previous Aishi had only heard of. 

She may have been the first of her line who, when meeting their man, had developed empathy. And that empathy only manifested now, in the form of guilt. 

“But how? How am I going to be complete? If I can’t get him that way… my heart is telling me I shouldn’t. But Mother…”

Something came back to her mind. A moment where she was home alone, with her mother. Where she had taught her about the Heartless. Those creatures made of pure darkness, who stole people’s hearts. And she told her that some of them… were actually sentient. That there were people who willingly sacrificed their hearts, and that, through the sheer force of their will, they kept their conscience, sacrificing only their emotions. And one sentence she spoke then, at the time leaving a young Ayano unfazed, was now gaining a lot more significance. 

“Those special heartless, in a sense, are just like us!”

Just like them. 

They didn’t have a goal. Nothing but survival was on the mind of the Heartless, even those who were conscious. But they were incapable of feeling the guilt that tormented her so much. 

“My heart is weakening me…”

And in that moment, she made the life changing decision. Even has to make a life changing decision one day or the other. And Ayano’s was a strong one, one that would change her to her very core. 

“… I must give it up. Mother is right… Mother knows best.”

She got up from her chair and went toward the mirror in the bathroom. She took a seat and breathed deeply. Once she was done, she would lose any capability of emotions. But she was fine with it. After that experience with guilt, she decided that emotions aren’t worth it anyway. She pulled up her bra and started to feel the area between her breast with her finger. There it was. Her heart, still beating. At that precise moment, some sort of dark fog manifested itself on her hand. The influence of the darkness within her heart. Some say it would give people strength beyond that of a human being. As such, it was a signal for Ayano to go through. She pushed her finger in, and managed to make her nail go under the skin. 

“Ugh…”

It was painful. Blood was starting to drop on her belly. But she had to keep going, it was the only way forward for her. If she wanted to follow the way the Aishi did, she would have to endure such pain. 

With her fingernail acting like a cutter, she began to slide her digit down. It wouldn’t have worked in any other context, but with the influence of darkness giving her physical strength, it was made possible. But she groaned all the way through. It was still painful. There must have been some way to make the pain more tolerable… At that moment, she regretted not undressing herself entirely before doing this. With her free hand, she went down to reach her abdomen, and sneaked it under her panties. And while with one hand she opened her thorax, with the other she was simulating her vulva. Now, Ayano’s groans where mixed with her moans of pleasure. It was painful, but it was also felt amazing. 

“Ugh... oomph… ngaah!”

The cut she made between her breasts was now large enough. Now that her hand had made the opening, it began to go inside. A still unpleasant experience, so she kept stimulating herself to keep it bearable. 

There. She could feel it with the hand inside her body. Her heart. She had a grasp on it. She finally could…

“Rugh!”

Her grasp was a little too strong. She kept on counterbalancing the pain by keeping the activity on her lower parts. Now, she would just take the muscle inside her, more delicately, but still with enough strength to go through with the ordeal, and she began to pull. And again, the pain made itself felt, requiring more activity downward. Her two hands kept going in unison, in order to go through while keeping the pain minimal. 

“Ugh… yes… ngh… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The two halves of her body had their tampering done. In her nether parts, she reached her climax. And from her thorax, she pulled her objective. 

Her heart had finally left her body. 

And Ayano’s body fell on the ground, limpid, unanimated. 

Her heart was starting to fly away, but dissipated into a dark fog. 

That same dark fog was now starting to take over Ayano’s body. 

It came out from the hole in her chest. And then it went all over. Her head, with her long hair let loose, her arms, her belly, tainted with her own blood, her crotch, with her hand still here, her bare legs and feet, all was starting to get engulfed. 

And then it seemed to leave, with Ayano’s body still unanimated on the ground. But the hole she herself dug in her chest was gone. And now, she was getting up, her eyes still closed, and turned to face the mirror. 

When her eyes opened, she saw a sign of her success. 

Her eye colour had changed from an empty grey to a bright yellow. 

An eye colour common among the Heartless. 

The original Ayano Aishi was no more. 

Her father failed. 

But so did her mother. 

The Ayano that was standing now was not seeking love anymore. 

She was hungry for hearts. 

A guiltless monster is what this girl had made herself into. And all of this in the name of love. 

And now it is inaccessible to her, thanks to her own actions. 

The whole Aishi household was doomed from its genetics removing normalcy from their line. But even without it, love is a source of sin. For anyone might be ready to do the irreparable once this passion takes over their hearts. 

And not just romantic love, either. Because a familiar name will return soon. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter XII: Mother Knows Best, the fate of Ayano Aishi  
END


	15. Chapter XIII - The carnal story of the Pluck family, part 2: Catherine Pluck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thirteenth sinner, returning to a family which fell after the father.

This is the time we return to the Pluck family. And where we finally see the extent of the sins of the fathers. 

We have witnessed multiple times the influence of family on the children. Primary socialisation is the name given to it by the scientists of groups of people, who are called sociologists. And it leaves an imprint so deep on the person that it cannot be washed away. It is simply another way of saying that the people of earth are doomed the moment sin manifests in the family. 

Catherine Pluck is one will follow the way of her father, and one who will fall alongside him. 

Though, once again, a reminder of my warning about the father: some might find disgust in this story, or they might find arousal. In the meantime, I still have not found an explanation for this phenomenon, but it is a fact that it could happen. I do wonder what the results on you will be. But for now, let us proceed. 

Catherine Pluck, the youngest daughter of Theodore Pluck, was the closest to her father. She would excitedly follow him to the library where he works when the day did not require her to go to school, and he was her favourite playmate in the household. 

She was the least reticent in following his no-shoes rule, and while her mother and sister used to sneakily wear a pair in his absence, she mostly went barefoot in many places even before the rest of the women eventually abided to the rule. This only served to perpetuate an image she began to cultivate and she grew up – that of being a free-spirited child who cared the least about society’s rules. 

This would lend her into trouble when she began to use the charms of Aphrodite at a very young age. It was the age in which children gain perverted thoughts and wonder about enacting on them. She became very close to the boys who were attracted to her, and their attraction led them to grope in public. She was expelled from her school after this event, and she promised she would behave to her parents when she would return. Now they were prudent enough to keep their games far away from the sights of people. 

She eventually grew into a young, beautiful woman, and had to move away to study before she could find work. She had decided to move away from her former life, and it was with shoes on that she moved to university, hellbent on changing her ways. 

But nature finds a way to always come back, even when furthest away from you. 

She had been studying for two years when she had decided to return to see her father again. She had kept contact with him, which was enough to make her happy, but not long after her studies began, she lost contact with her mother – it was not long before the revolts and chaos spread by A the Gadfly. 

She had talked about it with her sister Madeleine, who had decided to come ask their father directly. Eventually, she lost track of her sister too. She was worried, verily, but had decided to focus on her studies. So she instead asked the police to look around. But no tracks could be found, and Catherine Pluck mentally cursed the police on the accusation of incompetence they had gained before the Gadfly affair – which, while also giving them a significant boost in reputation, also left them with an immense charge of work on their hands. 

She had seen him again upon graduating, and had talked very little, which was very surprising to her as she had made no secret of how much she liked him. He, however, had seemed to have consistently gained weight, and nevertheless appeared in a constant state of hunger. 

It had taken Catherine maturing to realise the lecherous edge in the way her father used to tell they were “so cute he could eat them up.” Now, this is a silly expression of affection, but she was informed of the attraction to the act of eating – sexual pleasure in the idea of cannibalism. 

So she had decided to ask him herself. A part of her mind kept telling herself she was being ridiculous, that there was no way he could have eaten the rest of the family, but she also could not let the implication leave her mind. 

And despite any rime or reason, when they met again, the latter part of her mind was proven correct, and he had her visit his stomach after his dead wife and still living daughter made the trip. And in this moment, he met his end due to his remaining daughter’s clairvoyance in hiding a knife on her person and tearing her father open from the inside. 

Catherine was saddened yet excited. She had finally obtained her answers as to the situation of her mother and sister. Then her father pronounced five words that made her change forever. 

“You can eat my eye.”

Upon hearing this, she was a first repulsed. Then she slowly made her mind to comply. And when the eye was in her mouth, the taste had her keep going in the direction of devouring the dead body of her father. Then her shoes were removed, and the plucky little girl she was resurfaced, but this time in a perverted way, and she continued her act of cannibalism. 

Not long after, she returned to the city where she studied. And with her she carried her perverted thoughts. 

She contacted one of the boys she had – ahem – “befriended” and asked if her were okay with spending one last night together before she moved away for good. Innocently enough, he accepted. 

They met in the apartment of Catherine Pluck that very night, and they were both very eager for each other. Only one of them, though, knew that they had very different thoughts about what would entail. 

The boy was named Robert, and the two were extremely close. They were used to call each other by their diminutives, and more often than not, in a sultry tone.   
They reached for the bedroom. Both had undressed themselves, and the night began as very torrid. Robert was too occupied pleasuring and being pleasured back by his lady to notice that, during one kiss, she had slid a pill from her mouth to his. 

“Wow, I feel drowsy suddenly,” he said when the pill began to take effect. 

“Tired already?” she asked, falsely concerned for his wellbeing. 

“It must have been pretty steam—” 

He passed before he could finish the last syllable of his sentence. 

“Good night, Bob.” told Catherine. 

She waited one hour with the body in her apartments, before the poison dissolved and its effects disappeared. 

And she began feasting on her former friend with benefits’ body. 

Unlike her father, she had consumed the entire body in a dinner that lasted the entire night. All she had remaining to hide was the bones, which she hid someplace and put in acid she had brought from science class to dissolve. 

The sister of Robert was intrigued by the disappearance, and had come to ask about her brother’s disappearance. 

But when she came to ask Catherine, she drank a lotion and repeated the grotesque process her father did on her own sister, swallowing her whole. 

But this time, there was an answer to this impossible feat: it had been found that the lotion of adrophagy concocted by the new Locusta and La Voisin themselves had landed itself into the modern times, knowledge of its existence and the way of tits conception having been kept secret for ages outside of the dark circles practising black magic and poison making. As it turned out, it worked not only on women: Theodore Pluck had found one and used it on himself to reverse the usual dynamic of sexual cannibalism of the black widow spider. 

After that night, she became a lot more cautious than her father: she had indeed suspected he became a cannibal after he gained weight every time a woman disappeared in the area. She would feast on people also, but only on special occasions. 

This Christmas, she celebrated by inviting a former classmate and having her play the role of the capon. And unlike her father, there wouldn’t come a time where she stopped her feasts, until the two would meet again. 

Do you see it now? The influence of family on sin?

Catherine Pluck had led a normal life before the final altercation she had with her father. Only a few words had her follow in his dark path. 

It made him the cause of her fall… so was your father for yours, was he not? True, it was more out of cockiness than real malice, but he still sacrificed your normality for a potential moment of glory. 

And it is too common, as many of our tales included a form of family. 

Now we are done with this concept, but we are not done with the sinners. Even when they reject humanity, they fall, just like our next. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter XIII: The carnal story of the Pluck family, part 2: Catherine Pluck  
END


	16. Chapter XIV -  Manhunter, or the extreme misanthropy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourteenth - and second to last - sinner, who falls because of his dislike of his own kind.

There is one thing that I have perceived by listening to you, and that I have failed to make falter: your faith in your own species. Truly, your case is nigh hopeless. 

You may believe human are fundamentally good, that the cases I have told you about are nothing but exceptions, that despite piling up, there are too many humans on Earth to make you change your mind on that matter. 

Well, I truly am sorry, but as you keep blinding yourself about the matter of sins, the number piles up: you may not believe that the sinners who are too deep in their faults are majority, but even as we speak, the number keeps increasing. They ignore their fault, they do not confess, they reject the _Confiteor_ , the prayers, the desire to be good men, they simply refuse to pay any mind to the charge of sin on their shoulders. 

Well, one has thought about humanity’s faults, and decided to make justice himself. 

A certain child, by the name of John, had been returning from his school day with his mother, who had come to bring him back home. 

This was routine for the boy, who, even at the age of 13, had been accompanied by his mother. They would come and go to his school using her car, and chit-chat along the way. 

By the way, I have remarked that you pay no more attention to whenever a detail you do not understand comes up. I believe you begin to assume that this means this story is from a time to come, not one past. I salute that – it makes me have to interrupt myself less and less, which makes my task easier. But I am getting distracted by myself, ironically enough. Let’s keep going. 

They were distracted also when the other car appeared and they crashed. 

John had left almost intact, while his mother was having trouble breathing. Her chest was the only part of her bruised body that moved, and it did with difficulty. 

Someone saw the accident, and had made a call for an ambulance. It was time to intervene for those who have the role of social heroes. 

But the family of the opposite car was taken in priority. John’s mother was almost ignored. And subsequentially, what would happen in this scenario did happen – she died before they reached the hospital. And the ward assistants were charged with telling him the terrible news. 

But the gears had started to grind in his mind. Deep down, he knew it couldn’t be helped, that her fate was almost sealed. But he thought, why did they bring her in last? She was dying! The others were almost fine! Why did they ignore her! They’re… they’re…

The word came to him, and that night, the light of hope in the future flickered and disappeared. 

They’re useless. 

At age 13, John had become a misanthrope. He pondered about his hatred in the orphanage, before one person who adopted him showed him a way to lash out his newfound hatred. 

An assassin. A professional hitman. One who made his life by taking the life of others. He apparently had an eye for new recruits, because after his adoption, the man had revealed his secret profession and proposed that John train under him. John was extremely eager to accept the offer. 

Day and night, the two trained in life taking. The trainer had the privilege of owning packs of a jelly that imitate the consistency of human flesh; the trainee understood very quickly which weapons are the best at traversing the meat. The trainer knew human anatomy very well, and which part should be hit to reach the vital organs and secure a discreet hit; the trainee assimilated these lessons very well. 

The trainee was offered a mask that would hide his face. One that would only be removed if the person wearing it wanted, as it required a manipulation known to them alone. 

And the adult and the child began by having their first mission together. And, as it would turn out, it was also their last. 

The mark was an influential politician, who was well on his way to privileged positions. One of his rivals wanted him gone, as he too coveted the position. A dirty tactic on the political chessboard, but one that is very valid. 

The target was in sight, but surrounded by bodyguards. A situation that, as the professional had taught his disciple, calls for patience, and to wait for the perfect moment to hit. 

Hours passed without the occasion for discretion to present itself. John had enough and dashed towards the crowd of bodyguards, quickly slithered his way between them, and hit the mark in the heart, killing him almost instantly. 

The adult had called out to him, shocked at the recklessness of the pupil. The latter was soon surrounded by the bodyguards, and all of their guns were cocked at him. This required intervention from the adult, who ran into the guards prepared to add more to the hitlist. 

The assassins and the guards both battled, and the advantage was on the assassins. Despite being outnumbered, they managed to overpower the guards with their speed and agility. It helped them approach the guards with their daggers, and let them stab them in the same way that their employer perished. 

But the guards had an advantage: they had firearms. The range advantage was theirs, and it was only the speed of the assassins and allowed them to survive in the firework of bullet shots and cacophony of bangs. 

But it wasn’t enough. All of the guards had eventually joined their employer in the grave, but it became evident after the battle that the adult assassin had been hit in the foray by one of the flying metal slugs. Bleeding all over, he fell to the ground, only his chest betraying the fact that he was alive. 

John was astonished. His sorrow from the loss of his mother returned, and he ran to his mentor, his mask hiding his tears. 

“Eh, look at me now. Looks like I messed up bad, son.” The dying mentor said. 

“Please! I’m sorry. I was reckless, it’s my own fault!”

“Eh, don’t be sorry. My time would have come anyway, Johnny. You can go on without me.”

“Please!”

“There is no need. Now you are independent. You can only go on… without… me…” was all the mentor said before drawing his last breath. 

This event did nothing for John’s misanthropy. It had already reached a high point with the death of his mother, and the assassination training was only a way for him to lash out his hatred for humanity. 

But with his mentor gone, so was the last trace of affection in John’s heart. By losing the person who taught him everything, his new life began. 

And without an adult to supervise the kid, there was no holding him back. The whole world was his playing ground. 

He had gone to obtain the pay alone. 

But the police didn’t know this detail when they saw the aftermath of this encounter. The day following the assassination, the employer of John and his mentor was found dead, brutally murdered in his office. His chest was opened, his throat slit, his face imprinted on the bag that covered him. At first glance, no one could tell which method was used to kill him. 

Another casualty of the night was the daughter of the politician, crucified on the wall of the office. Her eyes were dangling from the sockets, and her exposed genitals implied that the encounter, for her, had also been sexual, but no trace of the attacker’s sperm was found. 

Only two clues could tell the killer. Firstly, a pseudonym, engraved in the daughter’s exposed stomach. 

**MANHUNTER**

And secondly, a voice recording, only the voice was modified by the mask’s voice modifier. The killer said, in the device: 

“I am the enemy of mankind, the purifier of the Earth. All worthless lives will be shanked away by me.”

And the recording concluded on an irregular, erratic laugh, signifying the killer had truly gone off the deep end. 

A way in which he could lash out with no harm done! But he was determined in his murderous ways. Still, keep on! Laugh now, my clown! _Ah, ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!_

Oh, but don’t worry, darling. I will not let him get away with it. A crime is a crime after all, even when led with good intentions. 

It is impossible for him to kill all of mankind – the reason why the number of sinners ever increases is that the number of humans ever increases.   
And when his life inevitably ends, Hell will be his final destination. As it is for every sinner I have told you about. Every sinner is destined to Hell, for their eternal punishment. 

But there is, perhaps, one who deserved it most of all. And he is the best to end our time of storytelling on. 

Best you be prepared, milady. The worst of mankind shall now manifest itself in the form of a single person. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter XIV: Manhunter, or the extreme misanthropy  
END.


	17. Chapter XV - The days of Count Otto von Orlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifteenth - and last - sinner, a count with unholu obsessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: probably the darkest story in this work yet. You have been warned.

You are yet again doubting my words. But this time, this is nothing for me to fret about. After all, this was predictable because of his very nature. 

I have told you stories about abominable people, about sinners of many categories. And you do not want to believe one can be worse than Jack the trickster, Bill the harasser, the cannibalistic Pluck lineage, the dissimulating Jack the Ripper, the scheming Agrippina, the unholy La Voisin, the morbidly curious ant crusher, the temptress Locusta the new, the chaos mongering Α the Gadfly, the brutal general Al-Dieaya, the incestuous Kane, the obsessive Ayano, or the misanthropic Manhunter, do you? 

Yet I assure thee that this man still exists. Look down to the stalagmite furnace; this soul you see is him, right before your eyes! 

And I now shall tell you his reasons for being part of the souls I punish. 

This soul is that of the Count Otto von Orlock, a nobleman who lived secluded in his county of Nirgends. He died eighty years before your birth, as the county was claimed by his own son. 

The son lived with his aunt, scheming to usurp his father. Though, considering what he saw, it was actually a fair affair. The Count’s daily routine was as follows: 

After eating in the morning, he would go have a stroll in his dungeon, eyeing the prisoners he kept there. None of them had committed actual crimes, they were just for his personal use. 

All of them were young women, some barely leaving adolescence, others having lived for thirty years. All were only wearing only a white rag, and rats were biting their exposed heels. 

One of the prisoners was an eight year old girl, taken from her parents. Another one, judging from the game she enacted with maniacal laughs, was having way too much pleasure at her prospect. In her cell had been the only man the Count had locked up when this particular day happened, though he certainly widened his twisted horizons. 

For this day, the Count had made his choice. A maid he had locked up for spilling his drink all over him. he took her out of her chains and her cell, and lead her to his own personal torture room. 

His adviser had brought back a new toy from the forges. A ball made from a metal which, long ago, had been unclaimed by the miners of Erzgebirge. A bad luck they cursed on Nickel the trickster sprite, and for this reason the named the metal “Nickel’s copper”. The ball had been left into a furnace of burning coal by the nearby village’s blacksmith, under the count’s orders, and was kept in a box with the charcoal still blazing red. 

“Hold it with this metal claw when you take it out of the box, my liege.” The adviser recommended. The Count made sure he would follow the advice. 

In the room was a basin of water, where the Count had the maid kneel after she undressed herself. He then ordered her to keep her chest facing the ceiling, an order the maid reluctantly followed. 

The Count opened the box again and took the ball of Nickel’s copper with the claw. He, in a moment of careless curiosity, touched it with the tip of his bare finger, only to back out immediately. He the noticed that he was bleeding at the tip – the skin had been burned by the contact. 

This was his guarantee that the ball was doing its office. This check done, he put the ball on the maid’s exposer chest. 

The unbearable burning sensation caused her to tense up and scream, but the Count immediately pushed her back again. The ball began burning through the skin, traversing it, then the ribcage, then her erratically pulsing heart. All the while, she was screaming in immense pain. Then the ball emerged from her back and plunged into the water, making a sound similar to a clink. The sound repeated as bubbles rose from it, before it suddenly turned black as the burned charcoal in which it was held with a crackling sound. The maid was left with a whole in her chest, not bleeding, for the ball’s heat had cauterized the wounds in its way; her breath began to slow down, before her dead body lost it balance and splashed water around the basin. 

The Count was satisfied, hiding his pleasure as best as he could. He brought the body to a servant, who had it, over the course of the afternoon, taxidermized and put in a frilly dress, only for it to be exposed in a personal museum. 

She was the most intact looking of the bodies exposed – the dress only betrayed the whole in her chest because it too had a whole where it was. The museum also had pieces made of bodies that were charred, flayed, dismembered, or disarticulated. The latter pieces could be moved at his will, and he usually did for a few of them whenever he spent his afternoons there, never leaving them in the same position as the day before. 

But this was not the day that had his son escape the castle to organise a rebellion against his father. In fact, his sister had tried to rebel against her father too, with the help of the Count’s wife, who was formerly one of the prisoners he held. 

But it didn’t end well for either of the protagonists of the rebellion. When the Count found out, he had them partake in a very special game – lasting twice the time of the ones he usually played. 

The daughter had been invited to dine with her father, wondering why her mother had ditched the meeting they had organised. When they sat at the table, any and all dish was hidden under cloths. Only a bell was unexposed, as it too hid its contents. 

The Count presented his daughter with the bell. She screamed when the saw the head of her mother being served. And she tried to escape when the cloths were removed, unveiling the diner that was made of her mother’s limbs and internal organs. 

She fell of the chair as she tried. Unbeknownst to her, a maid had attached chains connected to the table’s foot around her ankles. 

The Count walked up from his chair to his daughter and made her sit again. He then said to her ear: “We are not leaving this table before we are done eating. Now then, _bon appétit._ ”

The daughter was helpless. She was staring into the void, as if a shadow had appeared a thousand yards away, as she was eating her own mother, and as her father did the same. 

The feast lasted for half an hour, during which the night chased dusk away. The Count had the maiden hidden under the table wash the remaining skins of the bones, and made her work overnight for them to be made into furniture. But out of his sight, she gave them to another maid, and ran to the son’s bedroom, retaining her cries. He then had his daughter follow him to his bedroom, furnished with only a single bed. 

He announced: “You are my Countess for a night, dear. Shall you now play the role you mother used to play in this comfy bed ~ ♪?”

And father and daughter spent the away practising incest. Dawn took over night when they woke up exhausted. 

“Now you shall play the role your mother would have played, had I not been lenient with love ~ ♪!”

They didn’t bother with dressing back up as they went into the torture room. The adviser handed him another ball of Nickel’s copper, the second he ever used in his twisted games. Then he had his daughter sit in a basin, and open her mouth. 

She kept refusing. Too bad for her! He took out a pear of anguish and had it make an unusual office, which many would come to think of as its primary purpose: he snuck part of it into her mouth and used it to force her mouth open. To keep in open, he snuck his finger in as he removed the pear, and quickly dropped the ball into the daughter’s mouth. 

She tried to scream, but the ball muffled the voice for the little time it was audible. It dug inside her mouth, though her tongue, down her throat, and made its way through her before leaving by digging though her abdomen, repeating the noises it made the first time when it fell into the water. The daughter breath began to slow down, before her dead body lost its balance and splashed water around the basin. 

The taxidermist arrived again, unperturbed with the Count’s nudity not hiding his arousal. He proceeded to stuff the daughter’s body, before exposing her, still in the nude, by the furniture made of her mother’s bones. She was in a position of writing something on a human parchment: **SCHÖN VERRÄTERIN**. 

The Count’s son had learned this by hearsay from the maid who chained the daughter’s ankle, who had done so reluctantly, only out of the Count’s orders. Shocked that his father’s cruelty could reach this height, he fled with her to the Count’s stable, took his horse, and let her flee with him into the Black Forest. During the horse ride, the maid bared her feet and, as a sign of repentance to the Great Hypocrite Who is in Heaven, knotted a hay strand around her ankle. 

Another three years passed before the revolt of the Count’s son succeeded. 

He, with troops he had allied over the course of his preparations, ransacked the count’s castle, freeing many young men and women, sparing them from the count’s twisted games. 

Now the count was kneeling in wait for his execution, including four prisoners who had refused to leave their cell – one man and three women – the taxidermist, the adviser and a maid who had stayed loyal to the Count. 

The Count’s son and his wife – who had replaced the hay strand with a bracelet – urged the village’s executioner forward. But before he could swing his axe to the fallen Count’s neck, he said: 

“Otto von Orlock, thou art now to be executed before God the Lord in light of your crimes. By virtue of thy former title of nobility, however, thou shalt be allowed a say in what comes after thy death. Speak now, or stay silent for the rest of time.”

Orlock grinned, having a good idea of how to keep the pleasure going in his castle. He said: 

“Very well; in the floors beneath the room where my throne rests is a hidden room, lit only with torches. I demand that said torches be kept lit at all times, and replaced every day at the strike of noon. I demand that this room be my tomb, and…” he pointed his chin to the eight men who had stayed loyal to him, “…after my head is separated from my body, that every single of these seven people my body walks past be entombed alive with me, unclothed and fed till the day they join me.”

The Count’s son nodded. “Very well. Now, Otto von Orlock, thou shall be executed and be sent to Saint Peter for thy judgement. May the Lord have mercy on thy soul.”

The execution beginning, the Count rose to his feet and stepped forth. Before the count could walk past the first prisoner, the executioner swung his axe horizontally and sent the Count’s head flying away from his body, the grin still drawn on his face. 

Despite this, the body kept moving forward. With slow, almost mechanical steps, he sentenced with him the man, the first woman, the third woman, who was splattered with the blood spirting from the neck, the fourth woman, the taxidermist, the adviser, the maid. 

Finally, as soon as the fate of the seven servants was decided, the corpse stopped walking on its own and fell forward, signalling the final death of Count Otto von Orlock. 

The son sighed, having realised that, instead of being punished, the seven people were free to pursue a life of libertarianism away from sunlight, where no one could see they take part in constant fornication. “The dead man hath spoken. Lead the prisoners to their tomb with Otto von Orlock’s body.” The allies of the new Count complied. 

From this day on, Nirgends became a lot more peaceful. The Count and his wife worked to erase all traces of Otto von Orlock’s existence, and the taxidermized prisoners were returned to their family in the best of manners that could be, some having been charred or flayed beyond recognition, and most were given proper Christian burials. 

But his mind could never be at rest. Not when his father has been such a monster. Not when his sister and mother fell into his grip. Not when he sat over a tomb and a _fornix_ at the same time. The stain that was Otto von Orlock’s days were forever burned into this part of Germany. 

And now one more soul had found their stay in this place. 

That soul is your father’s, trapped into the silver statue that he is, unconscious but still existing. 

He is now becoming a curiosity of sorts, as his heart can still be heart beating in the statue. 

He is now the marker of this place, as all trace of Otto von Orlock has been erased in the ensuing _damnatio memoriae_. A fate only for the worst of criminals, left to be punished for eternity in my domain as the surface forgets about their existence entirely. 

This is a reason why the worst are forgotten. Humans actively decide to forget such people existed, unable to face the darkest parts of their nature. 

But now you should now, as I conclude our time in telling stories, that mankind bears the stain of its sins for eternity. How many are in heaven? Few. How many are here in Hell? We lost the count. 

But as long as sinners exist, my role to punish them shall never end. Let my role as narrator end, however, and the narrator of the beginning return, as I conclude this novel of the damned. 

Le Roman des Damnés  
Chapter XV: The days of Count Otto von Orlock  
END


	18. The father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> ...  
> ...

This was strange. For this time in my narrator endeavours, a character took over my narration to tell his stories. This was unusual. 

Well, anyway, now is the time I resume my own narration. As the husband, the Devil, the bride’s sole interlocutor of this τρίαμερον, has finished his stories, now I resume mine. 

Finishing the story of Count Otto von Orlock, whose soul had been wandering the stalagmite ridden field on which the gigantic automaton was kneeled, the Devil released his bride’s shoulder. The sudden release of his grip made her lose her balance, and she fell sideways on the cold ice of the cavern. 

The Devil put a knee of the cold ice, getting face to face with the bride. He asked her, in a falsely concerned tone of voice: “Are you alright now? Do you see what I am trying to tell you?”

The bride was breathing heavily, a consequence of the pain from the strong grip of her husband. But in addition, the feelings these stories aroused in her heart could be felt in the air she let out of her nose and her mouth. Had the Devil not been blinded by his exposing of his philosophy, he could have felt that the bride was not in shock. He could have felt that she was angry at him, and ready for an act of defiance. But his self-centred satisfaction at concluding his tales blinded him to that fact. 

“I ask again: do you understand my point?” he inquired once more, verbally putting emphasis on each word to signal his growing impatience. 

Incapable that she was of putting her thoughts into words, she nodded. 

“So now you see the purpose of this place.” He deduced from this simple gesture, interpreting it prematurely as a gesture of approbation, rather than as the mere signal of understanding that it was. “You see why your little group hug in Limbo was counter-productive to our purpose, do you?

“Do you see the true venom filled nature of your kind? How easily they fall to sin? This is their predisposition. Do you wonder how many escaped to Heaven? Few. How many joined us here? A considerable number. I do acknowledge that some of your kind escapes my grasp and reach what is so-called ‘salvation’, but they are few and far between. 

“The Great Hypocrite who is in Heaven has naught of good in him. The Creator of an imperfect universe, He is the One who helps sin manifest itself and consume His beloved creation. But I am not that lenient. When it comes to sin, every little fault is worthy of punishment. This is why I endlessly chase the sinners of the Earth. This is why my power is one of punishment. Some might call it a necessary evil; I call it the only way of good. 

“Do you understand that only I can change the world for the better?”

As she raised her face, the bride shook her head no. 

Followed a pregnant pause. The furrowed frown and stare on the bride’s face became the clearest clue of her anger and disapproval. The Devil, meanwhile, had his face unchanged. Despite his disguise being easily figured out when he met his family in law – so to speak – he truly was a master at poker faces. 

His reaction was to ask again, in a monotone voice that would send a chill down anybody’s spine: 

“Do you understand me? Do you see my point?”

She wanted to have a clear way of highlighting his hypocrisy. She wanted to ask, in a voice she couldn’t imagine she had: Then why did you take me with you? Why do I have these silver hands? Why did you cut my flesh hands? Why did you hold me such strength as to hurt me? Why did you defile me? Why did you do all of this to me, if you are as righteous as you claim to be? You may acknowledge uncertainties in your tales, it changes nothing to the fact that the Lord is not the hypocrite in this situation: the true monster, the great hypocrite, is _you_!

But her muteness and passion only allowed her to shake her head no again, only this time with more vehemence than her previous gesture. 

Another pause followed. The air in the cavern felt heavy for the couple during this silent moment. Finally, the Devil spoke again, keeping his monotone voice: 

“Do you know the new properties of your body?”

She shook her head no, this time actually expecting a clarification. 

“It basically functions the same way as a soul. It will not rot, it will not age: it will remain in its current state forever, as per the Great Hypocrite’s gift of eternal life. Do you actually realise what it means?”

She pondered for a moment, and then nodded. Unlike the head-shaking, this gesture kept all the defiance it held.

The Devil began speaking in a very tranquil voice, chillingly contrasting with his current anger: “Very well. Now you shall know…”

The Devil stomped the ground, and the ice shattered under the bride. And the Devil’s anger released all at once in a verbal explosion: 

“ _… WHY THOU SHOULD NEVER DEFY ME AGAIN!_ ”

Twenty metres separated the ice from the rocky ground. The bride landed next to a stalagmite, gasping from the shock. The back of her dress was torn off by the landing, and her left silver hand was dented on the back. 

She could see that above her, the ice reformed at a speed that she knew was unnatural. 

Suddenly the temperature around her began to rise at an alarming speed. She could hear around her the souls that were with her panicking. The pain her husband had told her about was about to come. 

But she wasn’t worried. She was ready to stand it if it meant showing her husband she was not as passive as he thought. 

She felt liquid flowing down under her arm. She noticed that her silver hands were melting rapidly revealing the stubs at the end of her arms, and that her sweat was mixing with blood flowing out from her pores. 

The soul of Count Otto von Orlock approached her. He bent face to face with her, and asked politely: 

“Are you not worried? You really should try to escape!”

She shook her head no, resolute to endure it. 

“Really? This is a pain do not wish on my worst enemy! Are you not even trying to escape?

“… I salute that, although I am reluctant: you are either a brave or a fool, and I know the line between the two is very thin. I wish I had that determination.”

Now, you might be surprised that the Count, previously presented as a fully heartless being, was capable of empathy. But remember my oath, and remember the Devil’s words. And most of all, be critical of the latter, because, as a narrator, he is not bound to the same oath as I am. 

The Count ran away when he noticed the lava was drawing closer and closer. The bride simply let it swallow her. With difficulty, she endured the pain of burning in a furnace of thousands of degrees in her last moments of consciousness, and soon enough, she was temporarily absorbed by the void, ceasing to exist for the day to pass. 

The following day, she woke up on the Devil’s throne, which was carved into the waist of the automaton. 

“Good morning, darling ~ ♪;” announced the Devil, his music by the end of the greeting hitting false. 

“Have you learned your lesson yet?”

She nodded; a gesture of lying. 

“Even nonexistence won’t release you from my grasp. _You are mine, forever and ever._ ”

A day came, in Germany, in the castle of Nirgends near the bank of the river Rhine, when the statue in the middle of the court began to tremble. 

A nearby tourist was startled by the sight. She approached her visiting companion, who had come to the castle for reasons other than merely sightseeing. 

“The Statue of the Beating Heart! It moved!”  
The statue was not named as such for representing a beating heart – it was a statue of a peasant in a hard to define gesture, as if he were charging at a threat only to realise he was done for in the middle of his gesture. No, it was named as such because many people claimed, from the day of its discovery somewhere during the 17th century, that they could hear heartbeats coming from the statue. And a few days prior, some had even claimed the heartbeat had gotten louder and more frantic. 

The companion of the tourist turned his head towards the statue of many legends. And he saw it tremble again. And again. And again. 

Suddenly, the silver coating cracked, and cloth could be seen from behind it. The crack widened, and others appeared all over the statue. 

“Is it about to…”

Before he could even finish that sentence, the silver coating of the statue broke apart, and the pieces of silver shrapnel fell all around its base as if it were peeled eggshell. The statue of the peasant was replaced by the man it represented, who clumsily ran forward as if his inertia had been preserved over the centuries, and finally fell face first in front of the tourist and her companion. 

The man kneeled to the peasant, who was at first surprised by his unusual clothes. But he did not hesitate to take the man’s helping hand, and the man helped him up. 

The peasant was only more surprised by the fact that the man’s unusual choice of clothing was the apparent norm all around him: all of the people he could see were dressed in a similar way. 

“Where am I? When is it?”

The peasant was even more surprised that the words coming out of his mouth were not the language he used to speak. And by the fact he could understand everything he said. 

The man replied: “This is the castle of Nirgends, in Germany. Today in January 31, 2021.”

It did not seem to be understood by the peasant. In fact, he seemed even more confused. 

“That cannot be! Who are you?”

“My name is Wilhelm von Orlock. I am the descendant of this castle’s Counts. Nowadays, it is property of the land of Rhineland-Palatinate.”

“If it is not yours, then what are you doing here?” the peasant asked, visibly panicking. 

“We came for you. They told us you would have been released by then, and they were visibly right. I am surprised they knew the curse would release after five   
centuries.”

“Five… What you saying? What do you want with me? Who are they? Where is my family? Where is…?” The peasant was visibly panicking more and more. 

“Well it’s a long story…”

In a friendly gesture, the man put his hands on the peasant’s shoulders. He then said, as calmly as matter-of-factly: 

“We need to talk.”

**THE END**.


End file.
